Why I Won't Fall For You
by Sarah Rose Serena
Summary: K/P - "You don't love someone because of their looks or their clothes or their cars. You love them because they sing a song that no one but you can understand. Even if that song gives you a migraine." Mused by Music. Language/Violence/Adult Themes
1. You're a Little Touched

_WHY I WON'T FALL FOR YOU_**  
**

a 10 Things I Hate About You story

From Sarah Rose Serena

* * *

**"You're a Little Touched"**

_If only I was above all this teenage nonsense. Hormones and awkwardness and displaced hostility… Sometimes I want to scream. I just want to disappear into a black hole and scream my friggin' lungs out, till my chest gives out and my throat burns like fire. It helps. No matter what adults tell me, it does help. It's called venting frustration. Look it up. When you can't use your fists to make you feel better, use your voice. That's my motto. _

_Sure, I'm a hostile person. Most of the time I am pretty pissed off for really no rational reason at all, just the way I am; I'm just irritable. It makes it tough to deal with me. I understand it, I do. I don't give a shit. But I understand. _

_So I like to lock myself up in my room with Les Paul? With closed eyes and a devoted spirit I can almost forget the world exists, forget all my regrets and grievances. Forget why I am now a perpetually angry girl... woman—feminist—whatever. The point is: I didn't use to be like this. It just happened, due to a stream of seemingly coincidental and not completely unconnected events. Like Mom's death. Like my heart when it got stomped on by an insensitive yet not especially special boy. Like when my typically thick skin was ridden with insecurity due to a certain heart-stomping. I play until my fingertips and/or my voice gets raw, whichever happens to occur first. _

_And due to this little habit, I sometimes sink into the melancholy of it and forget my necessary sanctuary as my companion. As a result: I find myself being mocked after a certain leather-clad 'sheep in wolf's clothing' catches me humming to myself._

_Yes, I swear I had no idea he was behind me, listening to me as I hunched over my notepad and worked on the lyrics to a new song, humming away to myself, complete with the tempo head-bob, so lulled into complacency that my walls had momentarily been forgotten to be guarded._

_I'll admit to my inner self (occasionally) that I have finally met someone who has an uncontrollable and completely un-ignorable effect on me. I had lasted so well with my thick hide and comforting misplaced hostility to keep people at bay, trapped on the outside of the drawbridge to my defensive castle wall, with guards posted at every entrance. It was helpful. It was necessary. In moments of retrospect I realize that I had hardened, somewhat sadly, over the years, over the experiences. But those moments of self-pity normally never lasted longer than 50 seconds. And then we move… and a very mysterious, very infuriating stranger comes careening to a dangerous halt seconds before driving his pretty motorcycle right through my open car door, and preceding to glare menacingly at me, as if it were my fault he hadn't been looking where he was going!_

_The second time we saw each other wasn't any better. One of our first meetings was when I was eating lunch in the quad. He was littering—not the best way to go about impressing me. I went to pick up his trash and toss it into the bin which was right beside us, when he did it again, pointedly challenging me. Man, was I pissed. I turned to pick it up again and issued a scathing remark, and you know what he said to me?_

"_Maybe I just like watching you bend over."_

_But that wasn't even the worst part. Typically at that point I would have been nauseous and violent. But when I turned to glare down at him, as he relaxed in the grass, leaning back on his elbows, looking up at me with that lazy smirk, I didn't feel sickened. I felt… I wanted to… God, it was horrible. It was definitely a defining moment for me. In my defense though, I did kick the trash bin over on him in revenge. So I wasn't completely a lost cause at that point._

_But it was just another step in the downhill path I would be taking since meeting him._

_My walls effectively began to crumble, unnoticed by me of course._

_But I'm getting ahead of myself. I'm rambling. I'll simplify._

_It all seemed to have started with this…_

I sit at a picnic table in the quad at school, during lunch. The tray of what I am sure is inedible waste material I plan to protest sits at the opposite end of the table, untouched by me—because I like to think of myself as somewhat sane. The sun is bright and blinding. I consider taking my hair down, which is done up haphazardly, just to provide a curtain from the harsh light. But I don't bother. It's too hot. And there doesn't seem to be any wind today, because we suddenly woke up with Arabian weather instead of the gratingly steady temperatures of mildness.

It was daydreaming weather. And I just couldn't manage preventing my mind from straying away from the task at hand. I come back to the paper, white and too clean and mockingly empty. Mostly because I just tore out the page that was scribbled all over and threw it away from me with a frustrated growl. I tap the end of the pen against the paper. Thump, thump, thump. Ooh, ooh, yeah. "Angie Baby," I half murmur, half hum. The pen thumps harder, slower. My brow knits as I stare into purity. Hopeless, I think.

Just as I am about to pitch the pen angrily across the quad I'm startled away from my writer's block of purgatory.

"That melody's familiar," someone murmurs into my ear, too close for comfort. The warm breath caressing the exposed skin at the nape of my neck has hackles rising along my spine instantly. If I was a dog, my scruff would be spiked. As it is, the fair hairs on my arms crackle with static and goose bumps emerge.

I spin in my seat, scowl securely in place as I squint up through the sun at his back. He's tall, so much taller than I originally gave credit. My gaze goes up from his stupid combat boots, follows the line of his lean legs, and the subtle lines detectable from under the dark t-shirt he's wearing, and finally lands on Patrick Verona's amused face. But it's not the amusement, or even his intensely gleaming eyes that are on me, that I bristle at. It's the cockiness in his smirk.

"For the record: stalking is illegal in all fifty states," I warn testily.

He chuckles with a shake of his head and plops down beside me on the bench. His elbows are propped behind him on the table and his neck is twisted while he focuses on me. "I'll make a note of that," he promises.

"What do you want?" I sour. Tapping the pen erratically now, no beat at all. I try to ignore the butterflies of nervousness fluttering in my gut. There is a tilt to his head that warms something low and deep inside me. I try to ignore that too. Hopelessly.

"What makes you think I want something?" he challenges, his dark brow rising at me. The smirk had faded a few sentences ago, but there is a subtle quirk to his lips that is sexier than the smirk. _Sexy_? No. Never mind. I shake my head.

I look at him: _'really, genius?'_ my face says. It's a common look for me. My face is used to it. "Can I help you with anything in particular? Perhaps an electrocution...?" Where's my taser?

"Oh." His face does something that reminds me of a sneer, but it passes so quickly I'm not quite certain. Then his eyes and lips flash suggestively. "I figured you for a kink kind of girl," he whispers lewdly.

I grimace at him. My hand comes up, the one without a pen (sadly), and aims a smack at him. He dodges smoothly and looks excited. The hit and miss burns my face red. I try again, for my pride's sake. But his long fingers wrap around my wrist and hold me still. I glare. He smirks. "You're enjoying this way too much," I mumble, frowning at him, our arms raised in impasse.

"What can I say?" he shrugs. He leans in and smiles conspiratorially at me. "Your skittishness gets me all riled up." The way his voice is low and husky makes it sound like so much more than it is. Sharp tongued sparring. Banter. It's a game. To him. And to me… _mostly_.

I yank my arm from his touch, ignoring the way the pleasant warmth had lanced out through the contact spot and radiated up through the rest of me. I keep myself from arcing back from him, on principle alone. It's not that I like the nearness. It's not because I can see the flecks of warm golden in his molten eyes at this range. It's definitely not because of a million other unimportant and irrational reasons that flit through my head at the most inconvenient times.

He watches me, like always, and critters skitter along my skin. I blush in discomfort. I can feel it heating my cheeks, moving down the hollow of my throat and spreading out between my breasts, coloring my collarbone, connecting the fair dots. Images of his lips following the reddening path flash through my head, making me angrier. At him or me, who's to know? But the look in his eyes says he knows what I'm thinking, knows the heat is pooling between my thighs.

_I think of Dad_. His many lectures of the evilness of sex and all that lead to it, including hormones and _lust_ and bad boys with eyes that can burn right into you and haunt your dreams, much embarrassingly admitted to one's self yet never, _ever_, _ever_ said aloud. I think of Daddy: my dad the OB/GYN. I think of the birthing videos he forces me and Bianca to watch once a month. The mess, the stickiness, the pain, the screaming, the cursing, the ripping and tearing of a woman's most sensitive area, the look on said woman's face is a look of unadulterated horror. I'll never forget it.

It quells the warmth spreading through me, let's me meet Patrick's stare again with a level head and a stony expression. _I am not affected by you_, my eyes tell him.

Maybe he can see that I'm lying, or at least how hard I'm trying. But maybe he can't. I shrug and pull back as if suddenly growing bored. It's hard work, especially since he keeps staring. My eyes glue to the blankness of the white paper. The pen rests carelessly aside it. I carefully pick it up, as if such a simple task takes concentration, and delicately hover it over the paper, sinking back into the frustration of writer's block.

Out of the corner of my eyes I watch Patrick's gaze jump intently from my face to the notepad then back to me again. There's tension here, growing studiously stronger as the seconds of stillness pass. It takes all my willpower and an abundance of stubbornness to pointedly ignore it. He opens his mouth, and I brace for impact.

"Verona," someone purrs from behind us.

I give myself whiplash. He turns leisurely to regard the bottle-blonde with an abundance of chest and a lack of clothing. The way her eyes cling to him makes me want to barf. Or smack her, just on principle. Girls like her grate against my feministic nerves. It is personal, my dislike for this type of person. It has nothing to do with him.

_I swear._

"Are you ready?" she demands impatiently, cocking a hip and crossing her ankles. My eyes dart down to the impractical and painful-looking heels adorning her pedicure-ridden feet. I don't even bother to repress my eye-roll.

Patrick cocks an eyebrow and looks at her like he's trying to remember whether he's ever met her before. I try not to snicker. I don't succeed. But at least I turn my head and hunch in on myself, so it's kind of masked. I guess. He shoots me a conspiratorial look before turning back to her with his suave-smirk perfectly in place. "Hm," he made a sound. I guess Miss Bimbo doesn't warrant any articulation, not that I really think she'd appreciate it. With a sigh, Patrick's body flexes out of its relaxed posture beside me as he glides to his feet fluidly. I hate that he has grace on top of it all. Me? Well, that's best left unevaluated.

With no more than a casual glance over his shoulder at me, Patrick flings an arm loosely over Miss Bimbo's shoulders and waltzes away lazily. I watch him go. I can feel myself glowering at his back. What is it about bad boys with danger lurking beneath the surface that lures so many hapless girls into that deadly trap? Not that I'm hapless, not by a long shot. I mean… not that I'm being lured into any traps. No. That's most definitely not happening, and never will.

Before I can launch into a train of thoughtful misery I redirect my seething to the blank paper and pen. It's really easy. It just pours out. Writer's block completely forgotten, pen touches paper.

Reasons Why I Won't Fall For Patrick Verona:

1. His smart-ass smirk

2. His mocking "You're obsessed with me" broodiness

3. His derogatory laugh

4. His deep-throated voice

5. His slouching shoulders

6. His leather jacket

7. His motorcycle

8. His watchful gaze

9. His infuriating and so painstakingly fathomless stare

10. His lingering hands (especially when aforementioned hands are lingering all over random bimbos)

11. His…

I scratch furiously at the line in my notepad, leaving angry indents on the white lined paper. If I don't limit myself to ten I'll be at this all day. I huff out an aggravated breath and blow a stray strand of hair out of my face while glaring down at the paper. The written words stare up at me, mocking me and my infuriation. Why am I always so fixated on that guy? He was right, goddamn him. I _am_ obsessed.


	2. A Really Nice Place to Go

"**A Really Nice Place to Go"**

I hate him.

It's plain and simple. I can't stand him. I wish I had never met him. I swear I do. But then I don't. Then I'm afraid I'd be bored. And lonely. But still, I hate him.

I hate his smile. I hate his eyes. I hate what he says, how he talks to me, what it stirs inside me. I hate his stupid combat boots. I hate his leather jacket. I hate his hair. I don't want to want to run my fingers through it. But I do. And I hate him for it. I hate the skanks that trail after him. I hate that if this was two years ago I would be one of them. Okay, that's not exactly his fault, but that's not the point. There is a lot more things I hate about him. But most of all, I hate that I'm sitting here thinking of all the ways I hate him. It's pathetic. Obsessive.

Damn him!

A gravelly growl escapes my throat. I run my fingers through my hair with exasperation and continue to glare at a spot in the wall in front of my seat. Someone nudges me in the back, and my spine stiffens. I spin in my seat with a deadly glower. "What!" I snap.

The girl shrinks back in her seat. Her eyes are wide. Her lips are parted. Instead of speaking, she shakes her head jerkily and glances up at the teacher with terrified eyes.

I can't even smile at that. I can only turn back in my seat and glower some more. What has he done to me that I can't even enjoy terrifying insipids anymore?

This cannot be healthy for me. I need to fix this. I have to get over this obsession. I tell myself it is some hormonal reaction. It is just a teenage crush. It was bound to happen to me eventually. I can't stay immune forever. It was stupid of me to assume I could resist the teenager within for so long without consequences. It will fade. I'll forget about this soon and it will all blow over. I know it will. I am absolutely sure it will. Until then I just need to bite my tongue and survive through it.

"I can do this."

"Miss Stratford?" Mr. Wong turns and cocks a brow at me.

Did I say something out loud? "Uh, nothing," I shrug.

Before any more embarrassment can occur, the bell rings. Thank God. I grab my book bag and make a dignified dash for the door, beating the traffic jam. I sling the bag over my shoulder and weave my way through the throng. My mind rolls blank, finally. I can just walk like a zombie and not fret (obsess) about anything for a few minutes.

I turn the corner to my locker and stumble to a halt.

"_Fuck"_ rings out in my mind and probably slips past my lips. There he is. My eyes slide to the girl he's leaning over, pressing her back into the locker. Wait. My locker!

Bastard!

Surprisingly, it's the same girl from the other day. And it just so happens that I recognize her now. She shares the locker beside mine, right beside mine. Damn it.

What do I do now? I need my locker. But if I go over there, I'm sure I'll do or say something to embarrass myself. And most probably hit someone. I want to disentangle. Yet every time I turn a corner: there he is. No wonder I'm obsessed. It's his fault. He's always freaking _there_. In my face: taunting me, riling me, stirring me.

I say again. Bastard!

So what do I do? I stomp over and stand, hands on my hips, eyes narrowed, and wait. My taser is in my bag. I could reach in and… No. Never mind. I won't do that. I'm not affected. I'm just a little irritated. I would be by anyone making out against my locker. It's a normal reaction. It has nothing to do with him.

"Ahem," I clear my throat rudely, cocking a brow when he detaches his mouth from hers and turns to look at me. He doesn't react. And damn it I want to slug him. Maybe then he'd react to me. Maybe then he wouldn't be so damn infuriating. He can't use that piercing stare on me when his nose is bleeding.

I blink out of my fantasy and return to realty.

"Oh, sorry," bottle-blonde says to me, not really sounding sorry at all. I want to direct my attention to her, completely ignore him. But my eyes won't move. I just keep staring at him. And he just keeps staring at me. "Come on," she says, fisting a hand in his shirt and trying to drag him along with her down the hall. For a moment he doesn't move, just keeps staring. She looks back at him with surprise, and then looks at me, like it's my fault. She's not very bright, is she? Now it's her turn to clear her throat. "Ahem."

"No problem," I finally respond. Slipping between him and my locker, I break his gaze, turn my back on him, and go about exchanging my books. "If this is going to be a regular occurrence though," I mutter to her, my face in my locker, "we should make a schedule." Slamming my locker shut a little too loudly, I turn to look at her, ignoring his closeness as he towers over me, still refusing to move. Personal space has always been a foreign concept to him. My eyes rake over her snidely. I'm being petty. And it's making me mad. Mad at him, not myself.

She giggles. "Sure." She glances back at him uncertainly, not knowing what to do. I feel pity for her. My heart softens. The jealousy begins to dilute. My anger at him intensifies. Bastard! "Um," she tries softly, shoving her hand at me while eyeing him weirdly. "I'm Susie."

I look down at the hand. This is unexpected. I want to be rude. I want to insult and quip and dismiss. But I don't. I take her hand in mine and actually smile a little. "Kat," I murmur, absolutely no venom in my tone. It shocks me. What am I doing? And why is he still hovering over me so intensely? I want to shrink back, or shove him away. But my pride won't let me do either.

Not knowing what to do, I turn away, pull a copy of _The Edible Woman_ out, and start walking towards the quad. Lunch isn't appealing. What else is there to do? I push through the double doors and stride out to find myself a spot out-of-the-way. I feel him following me. I resist peeking over my shoulder. My spine stiffens.

'"_I'd rather have you decide. I'd rather leave the big decisions to you." I was astonished at myself. I'd never said anything remotely like that to him before. The funny thing was I really meant it.'_

It isn't as easy as it should be to get sucked in. Angst stirs inside me. I sit at the picnic table in the far corner of the quad: book in hand, eyes on page. The protagonist's struggle with an engagement and a subtly overbearing partner in the late 60's hits my core. It's a fear. It's a promise. It inspires my stone walls and the guards protecting them. It solidifies my existence.

And then the bane of said existence presses against my back, ripping me suddenly back from the teetering edge of my thoughts when the book is abruptly plucked from my hands. I spin on him. My eyes narrow. I reach for the book. He holds it just out of reach, his fingers flipping through the pages with faux curiousness.

"Are you a masochist?" I wonder. I tilt my head up at him and purse my lips, eyebrows quirked.

He looks down and smirks. "Depends," he murmurs deeply.

"I feel obligated to warn you that my taser is fully charged."

"You're just dying to use that thing, aren't you?" he laughed. I dart up for the book again, when he pulls it behind his back and sits down beside me. "How many times have you used it on someone? Less than desired, I suspect."

"Enough to be closely familiar," I growl, slanting towards him, grabbing at the book in his hand. He pulls it back and laughs as I try to lean around him. It brings our faces closer, too close. I feel his breath tickle my cheek and fury rises at my reaction to him. "Give it back now, or I will knock you down."

"Fine," he sighs, holding it out for me.

I stare at him suspiciously for a moment. I know what he's going to do, yet I can't resist making another grab for it. He rips it from my reach at the last second and chuckles at my irritation as I glower at him.

"That's it." I snap. My hand goes for the inside pocket of my bag, wraps around the thick taser. My thumb switches the safety off even as I pull it out and thrust it towards him. The crackle of 100 thousand volts of electricity singes the air. But it misses him. His hand is around my wrist again, holding the taser out from us both, pulling me even closer.

The temptation to dart up, to press myself to him is almost too much to bear. Anger lashes out. I snap back and take a calming breath, switching the taser off and tossing it back into my bag with unsteady hands. I refuse to look at him.

"I never pictured you were the eating disorder type," he mutters. I can't tell if he's serious or not. I turn back to him to see his eyes scanning over the pages of the novel.

"It's metaphorical, you idiot," I snap, snatching it back while he's distracted.

He doesn't react to my viciousness, simply lets his eyes roll back up to me. The intensity there almost makes me shrink back, because the desire to move closer, to bask in it, is overwhelming and infuriating. He arches a brow. Everything seems in slow motion for a few seconds, making me fidget and frown. "How so?" he asks.

He seems seriously interested. And it's the only reason I answer him. "The protagonist finds herself empathizing with food at the realization that her fiancé is smothering her. It eventually gets to the point that she's unable to eat anymore."

He waits a moment, seemingly taking it in, and then speaks. "I don't see what food has to do with a miserable relationship."

I huff out a breath of frustration. I recognize it's uncalled for. But that doesn't matter. "It's—you know what?"

"What?"

"I bet Susie's waiting for you," I drawl with a sweet smile. "Why don't you just run along and leave me be?"

He shrugs and glances towards the doors to the building. "Why would I do that?"

"Why—" I stop myself. I sigh. My shoulders slump down. My fingers play with the worn spine of the novel. "What is it about me that you find so entertaining to torture?"

"I didn't know I was torturing you."

"Yes, you do."

"_Am_ I torturing you?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"What?"

"Why am I torturing you?" he asks me.

I'm dumbfounded for a second. He seems serious. He's playing with me though, I know he is. But my wit is lacking at the moment. I can't think of how to smarm my way out of this. I just say, "How should I know? I'm not a mind-reader."

"I mean," he smiles, "What is it I'm doing to torture you?"

"I—" What? My mouth falters. My eyes are drawn to his lips as they quirk up in the corners. He's enjoying this. I'm enjoying this. Damn it all to hell. I have to get out of here. His lips are a stark contrast to his fair pallor. Vivid red lips against pale skin and dark eyes and hair. It's quite a picture. I want to… no I don't. "I have to go," I say awkwardly, jumping up from the table and spinning on my heels. I retreat hastily, screw pride. I can see him smiling as I walk away. I'm practically running.

I make it to the parking lot unhindered. I find my piece of crap yet environmentally friendly car where I left it this morning. I reach for my keys. And I realize that I forgot my bag. Damn it. "Damn it all to hell," I growl and kick the banged-up door with my boot-toe. "Damn it, damn it, damn it," I smack the window.

I turn and stomp back to the quad. But the table is empty, my bag and Patrick are gone. What the fuck?

"Hi, Kat," a shrill voice calls from behind me. I take a breath, turn slowly in a circle, and come face to face with Susie. My day is complete. But maybe she knows where Patrick is. I'll ask.

"Do you—" The minute bell rings.

"I'll see you around," Susie waves and rushes off to class.

"Kat," Mandela snaps me out of my fuming stupor with a nudge, "you coming?"

"Yeah," I murmur absently. "Go on, I'll see you later."

Mandela shrugs and walks off. The quad empties quickly, leaving me. I breathe deep and compose myself. I walk back into the building, knowing I'll be late for class. I don't care. I need—

Someone grabs my arm and jerks me sideways. I blink. And find myself in a darkened janitor's closet. It's dusty and moldy and completely pitched in darkness but the familiar musk of man fills my senses, telling me who I'm pressed intrusively against.

I reach above our heads and feel for the string I can feel brushing the crown of my head. I give it a tug and the cramped room is illuminated. "You—" I shove a finger into his chest.

"Forgot your bag," he says, holding it up to me.

"Thank you," I snarl, snatching it back. I try for the door, only to find his hand wrapped around my arm, keeping me still. I turn to level him with a dangerous look. "What is this?"

He takes a surveying look around and smirks. "A nice place to go…"

"Yeah," I say dryly, "real nice. I'm sure you spend a lot of time in here." I try to step away, but find myself restrained.

"I think we should clear the air."

"The air's clear," I snap, latching onto the doorknob. He pulls me back and puts himself between me and my escape route. "We're missing class."

"And?" he cocks a brow. His hands are on me, skin to skin, and I'm feeling flustered. This isn't good. "_A Whisper in the Sound_ is playing tonight."

"Thanks for the alert," I drawl. I inch backwards, trying to give myself breathing space, but he doesn't seem to understand or care, and keeps himself too close. I try to get passed him again, just for the hell of it. I end up just getting pressed against him and have to press my back into the sharp edges of the metal shelf behind me to keep from jumping him.

"I'll try not to torture you," he smirked.

Then it hit me. He's asking me out? Yes. He's asking me out. Not even an hour after mauling Susie all over my locker. "You're unbelievable," I scoff, bewildered.

He looks taken aback for a second, but it doesn't last long. His arrogance won't let it. "What?" he asks blankly.

"Ugh!" I growl, shoving past him and darting out of the closet. My bag on my shoulder, I run down the hall towards class before realizing I still have to go to the office for a late slip first. I do a 180 and bump into a hard chest. "_Oomph_…"

Hands grip my arms, steadying me. "So what exactly is so aggravating about going to see a show?"

My eyes roll up to Patrick's face. He's grinning in amusement. There's mocking in his sparkling eyes. But there's something else too, something that puts me off balance. "You're _freaking_ unbelievable. I'm not one of your little—"

"Oh great," he sighs, his chest rumbling vibrations through me. His eyes roll. A disobedient curl of dark hair falls over his forehead. "Here we go again. You know, it may surprise you to know that I don't have a problem with sex-addiction. Not everything revolves around getting into your pants." His voice drips condescension. It grates against me.

"Could've fooled me," I grumble.

He leans in—like he'll kiss me—and smiles at my flinch. "You flatter yourself," he whispers.

I stare up at him for a minute. My body's tense. He's too close. I can feel him. It's too pleasant. I'm mad. My heel comes up, slams against his toes before I'm fully aware of my own intentions.

Patrick grunts and doubles in on himself, swearing under his breath. It makes him let me go. I take the opportunity to sidestep him and stalk off to the office. I listen, expecting him to follow, but he doesn't.

"That's the third time this week, young lady."

I suppress a groan and take my detention slip with dignity. And of course as I'm leaving the office I have to squeeze past Patrick, there to pick up his.

Great. Just great.


	3. Evil on His Mind

**"****Evil on His Mind"**

Detention sucks.

I know this now. Why I hadn't known it before, who's to know? But I definitely know it now. And I also know that this song is never going to get finished. Writer's block full force for the last two weeks has been driving me insane. It's either too cruel or to rant-like or too sappy or too depressing or too… you get the point.

I slouch back in my seat and resort to doodling to pass the time. Mr. Wong's fast asleep in his ergonomically-incorrect chair and the windows are letting in sounds of teenage-life. The room is eerily quiet. Mostly because there's only three people in the room, and one of them is snoring lightly from behind his desk. The blackboard is smudged and blurry; it needs a good cleaning. The classroom is overly bright with the afternoon sun shining directly in through the row of windows that line one whole wall.

I look down to my notepad and find a creepily _Nightmare before Christmas_ style tree taking up its entirety. Squiggly lines up and down, over and over, red ink mingling with black. It's scary. I wonder how my therapist would interpret it.

Bianca will be mad she has to wait for me for a ride home. I need to prepare myself for a temper-tantrum. Too bad, I think sourly. Let her bitch and whine. Now she'll know how it feels. I have to wait for her cheerleading (mascot) practice to end half the week. And Dad will be disappointed. Not that I'll be punished for getting detention, considering it was only for tardiness.

I want to go check out that _Rock-its_ store down on the corner of Shipshape Lane. I plan on doing it after dropping Bianca off at home. And maybe I'll go down to the park and—

It's not working.

I can still feel his eyes on my back. I know he's staring at me. Mr. Brooding Intensity over there. Distraction does not help.

I feel something bump the back of my seat and I resist the urge to turn. My eyes are pointed forward, and that is where they will stay, no matter what. I tell myself that again when it happens a second time.

His lips brush my hair when he leans forward. I stiffen. "Come out with me tonight," he whispers casually.

I angle my head, but don't quite turn to look at him. "I'm sitting in detention on a Friday afternoon. That's your fault."

"Did you have something better to do?" he asks archly.

"Yes."

"Do tell," he intones.

Seconds tick by. "Okay, you've got me," I sigh. Turning in my seat, I go to look up at him adoringly, and almost backpedal when I realize just how close we are. "There's really nothing I'd rather be doing right now than sitting here with you. I do so love our alone-time."

"Is that sarcasm?" he smirks, cocking a brow at me.

I smile sweetly in return. "No." I'm all wide-eyed innocence. It should be making me sick to my stomach. But it's fun. My smile is just a tad bit genuine.

"So, what's the problem then?" He pointedly ignores the fact that he knows damn well I'm screwing with me.

"No problem," I shrug, turning back in my seat dismissively.

"I'm glad that's settled then. I'll pick you up at ten."

"Uh—"

"Should I use the door or the window?"

"No—"

"I know," he smiles charmingly. "I'm looking forward to it too." His smugness grates me. Why can I never win with him? "Just wear something dirty."

Excuse—"

"Sorry," he laughs. "I mean something you can _get_ dirty."

"Verona—"

"What?" His smile is all pleasantness. His eyes are mocking pools of heat that rile up my insides. I bite down on the feeling and grit through it.

"I said no."

"Fine," he shrugs casually. _'It doesn't matter to me one way or the other,'_ his demeanor says. I can't help the dash of hurt that settles heavily on my chest. "Have it your way."

He leans back. I lean forward. And we don't talk for the rest of the hour.

*

"About friggin' time," Bianca moans as I make my way to her from across the parking lot. She's propped up on the trunk with headphones in her ears and her diary in her lap. She plucks her ears clear and stuffs the stuff back into her bag, sliding from the car as I move to unlock the doors.

"So sorry to inconvenience you, princess," I drawl sardonically, rolling my eyes. She comes back at me with something but it escapes my attention because Patrick brushes rudely past us at the same time. My eyes traitorously follow him. I don't come back to myself till he's gunned his bike's engine and driven off, winking at me as he passes by. _Without a helmet_.

"Hello, earth to Katharina?" I snap back and turn to shoot little sis an irritated look. "Where'd you go?"

"Nowhere," I shrug, trying not to get defensive. We climb in and I rev the car to life. "I learned to tune you out about a decade ago."

"Even so…" Bianca trails off, then apprehension flickers over her face and she brightens with enthusiasm. "Oh." She turns to stare out the window as I pull away from the school. There's a smile on her face that is so impish I want to smack it off.

"Oh. What does that mean?" I ask, knowing I shouldn't. I should just let it drop.

"Nothing," Bianca smiles wistfully, "absolutely nothing."

We ride the rest of the way home in silence… in my fantasy. But it is pretty easy to tune Bianca out, especially with the whirling turmoil taking up so much space in my brain. The rest of the night flies by unnoticed. I am zombie. Dad talks about the crack baby he delivered a few hours ago through dinner, and Bianca blithers on about this new boy she has a crush on at school and how wonderful it would be if he'd ask her out and if she'd actually be able to go on a date. I wisely kept my mouth zipped while Dad reminded her of the dating rule. Bianca doesn't get a date until Kat gets a date. Good luck, little sis, you'll need it. The dinner is mediocre but tasty nonetheless. Homework doesn't take up much brain power, so I get through it too quickly for my liking.

I put my PJ's on and splay out in bed with my book. But it doesn't last long because the noise in my head keeps getting between my eyes and the page. I pace the room a few times, willing my thoughts to go away. I can't stop thinking about… never mind.

I stop in front of the red Les Paul guitar hung up on its stand in the corner. I run my fingers along it in contemplation. Should I try to work on the song again? Eventually I let out a soft sigh and shake my head. It wouldn't help clear my mind. It would only bring my obsessive thoughts back to he-who-will-not-be-mentioned.

I end up flipping through the box of vinyl records I had stuffed up at the top of my closet, collecting dust. After hooking up the gramophone player, I pull out an old Helen Reddy record and set the needle.

The fuzzy static that plays throughout the room as the record starts spinning is a warm familiarity. It lures my eyes closed and forces my body to sway ever so slightly. The song is a soft rock ballad, but there are heavy overtones of jazz, Mom's favorite. My fingertips trail along the surface of the player, the ridges and the gritty dust all tangible memories. It feels good. I feel myself smile. Everything is nice.

'_You live your life_

_By the songs you hear_

_On the rock 'n' roll radio_

_*_

_And when a young girl_

_Doesn't have any friends_

_That's a really nice place to go_

_*_

_Folks hopin' ya turn out cool_

_But they have to take you out 'a' school_

_You're a little touched in the head_

_Angie baby_

_*_

_Lovers appear in your room each night_

_And they whirl you across the floor_

_But they always seem_

_To fade away_

_When your daddy knocks on the door_

"_Angie girl, are you alright? Tell the radio goodnight"_

_All alone_

_Once more_

_Angie baby_

_*_

_Angie baby_

_You're a special lady_

_Living in a world of make-believe_

_*_

_Stoppin' at her house_

_Is a neighbor boy_

_With evil on his mind_

'_Cause he's been peeking in Angie's room_

_At night through the window blinds_

"_I see your folks have gone away. Would you dance with me today? I'll show you how to have a good time, Angie baby"_

_When he walks in the room_

_He feels confused_

_Like he walked into a play_

_And the music's so loud_

_It spins him around_

_Till his soul has lost its way—_

A light rapping startles me from my daze. I spin, a small yelp escapes me, and the back of my thighs hits the desk, sending things clattering. Someone's at the window. Someone's looking in on me. That someone is Patrick Verona.

"Holy shit," I blurt out, hand at my heart. Thumping rings out in my ears. My heart is going crazy. I gather myself quickly and stomp over to the window, wrenching it open. "Jerk," I curse him. "You almost gave me a heart attack. What the hell are you doing here?"

I don't even bother blocking his way, because he doesn't bother waiting for an invite, simply crawls through the window, gracelessly. My arm goes out, catching his, steadying him absently.

"Ah," he breathes, dusting his hands, before leveling me with an intent stare. "I had no idea you sang."

"I don't."

I frown; my eyes draw to the way his brow crinkles. "Then what do you call what you were just doing?"

I look over my shoulder, frowning confusedly. "That's the music."

"And you," he says slowly, as if I'm insipid.

I don't bother acting affronted, just turn and take the needle off the record, thrusting the room into silence. I turn back to him on my heel, tucking tousled hair behind my ear. "Well, I don't sing."

"But you just were," he laughed. I hadn't realized. He sidesteps me and focuses his attention on the box of records. He thumbs through them absently, pausing to take a closer look occasionally. "So not only do you have a voice and play guitar," his eyes flick to the Les Paul in the corner, "but you're also a vinyl girl." He nods in approval.

"My mom's," I say, unthinkingly. "She was a major purist. Swore there was no quality in anything after vinyl, and stuck to her guns." I step up beside him, watching his face as he surveys.

His fingers glide over the player, his head tilts to read the label on the record. "Helen Reddy?" he muses.

"One of Mom's favorites, she liked the eclectic of Reddy's style."

"And that song you were singing? It was the one you were humming the other day too."

"_Angie baby_," I sigh. "One of the most original, out-of-the-box songs ever recorded."

"I'm sure," he murmurs. His hand pulls away from the player and he turns to me. The hand still clutching mine squeezes once, sending jolts of warmth up my arm. "She sounds like a cool lady."

"She was." My voice comes out barely more than a soft whisper. He won't drop my gaze, and he's sucking me in. I feel my body arcing towards him. My defense system kicks into drive. I harden. Slipping my hand from his, I pull away from his touch and take a step back to distance us. He won't let me go though. His hand slides back into mine, palm to palm. He pulls me back to him. With his hip, he nudges the player and the needle pops back into place. I arch a brow at that, because it had never worked for me.

His free arm winds around my waist. After that, everything happens so gently that I'm not fully aware of what's happening until I'm pressed against him and we're swaying around the room in slow motion.

'_And as she turns the volume down_

_He's getting smaller with the sound_

_It seems to pull him off the ground_

_No more the radio is bound_

_Never to be found'_

It's a blur.

It feels like I'm a watcher, standing outside my body, watching this happen. I have no control. I have no understanding. What the hell is going on?

The music goes on. The tinny sound increases towards the end of the song and our bodies don't stop still when it fades to silence.

His body is warm and hard against me. His hand is in mine. His breath is tickling my cheek. His eyes are burning into me. I feel all tingly. I feel light-headed. I feel good.

"You're glowing." His voice is thick with something syrupy and deeper and softer than it should be. As he speaks, wisps of my hair dance for a second.

I'm glowing?

This is bad. This is very bad.

I disentangle myself from him and take a forceful step back. After a deep breath of fresh air, without his scent soaking it, I can almost think straight.

"So what are you doing here?" I ask.

He rocks back on his heels and stuffs his hands in his pockets. "Did I not say I'd be here at ten?"

"What? Oh." The anger is back. My eyes narrow. "So you just decided to completely disregard me when I said _no_? Or is it that you just have yet to grasp that word? Let me help you. It goes like this." I shove him back to the window, and he complies, but it doesn't work out as I planned. He grabs on to my hand when I try to force him out, and he tries to take me with him. I yank back, inadvertently pulling him back from the window.

He chuckles at me, a deep sound from the back of his throat that has hairs rising at the nape of my neck. My hormones jump to attention and do a little jig when his eyes darken on me. His gaze goes down, purposely blatant, to take in the rest of me.

That's when I remember I'm wearing the tank top that sags in the chest area and the sweatpants that hug my hips and billow out at the legs hobo-like. There's a hole in the side left thigh. I really couldn't look worst. And I definitely don't want to give a damn. But I do. And I feel the blush creep up. It can't be avoided.

"I'm up here," I snap irritably, uncomfortable with the rudely _male_ attention. I could never stand ogling. But he takes it to a new level, while seemingly doing nothing different than any other. He makes my skin crawl when he leers. I'm not used to it.

His eyes come back to mine with a smile. He stills, like he's savoring the moment, before giving my hand a soft tug. "Come on."

"I'm not dressed."

"No matter," he chimes.

He's dragging me to the window and I'm dragging my feet. Inside there's a war going on. Yes versus no. It's Sane Kat versus Emotional Kat. His fingers are trailed along my palm, gripping lightly, tugging insistently.

E-Kat: I want to go.

S-Kat: No. It'll only lead to trouble.

E-Kat: But I really, really, _really_ want to go. What could it hurt? I can handle him.

S-Kat: No. _I_ can handle him. You'll get hurt. It's best to just—

E-Kat: Screw best. I'm going.

And that's how it happens. I snatch up my sweater before I let him pull me through the window and out onto the terrace. I should lock my door, in case Bianca or (God forbid) Dad comes in and finds me gone. That wouldn't be good. And I'm barefoot. I need shoes. I need to turn off the light to make it seem like I've gone to bed. I need to—but I can't because he's already starting to shimmy down the trellis. I lean over the edge and watch him.

"You've obviously had a lot of experience with this," I quip.

He lets go, lands solidly on his feet in the grass below, and looks up to grin cockily at me. I make a face at that and fling one leg over, find purchase for my foot in one of the wedges, and swing myself over. I'm not as graceful as he is when it comes to this. I have a hard time finding stable places to climb.

"Nice view," he smarms suggestively and I realize my mistake by letting him go down first.

I start to barb him back when my foot slides and I tumble to the ground with a yelp, knocking him off his feet and making him grunt in pain. My elbow lands in his gut and my knee between his legs. My face gets shoved into his neck, smothering me for a second, and my hair gets caught in a buckle on his leather jacket. I try to pull up and my hair tugs painfully. I dare not move. Aches are already making themselves known and he groans under me.

"Ow," I state after-the-fact. I try to look up to glare at him, but my hair's still stuck, and I'm afraid to move.

His arms wrap around me suddenly and he rolls me underneath him. I start to protest but then realize what he's done. I can now reach up to detangle my hair from his jacket. I work on it for awhile, while he stares down at me, enjoying this immensely and stirring my irritation, along with other stir-able things inside me. I'm too busy working on the knotted lock of hair that it takes too long to realize he's nestled between my legs. I have to hurry up. I end up ripping a bit and almost crying out, but his hand is over my mouth just in time.

There's a window a few feet above where we're lying in the grass, smashed on top of each other, and through it is a light that I know from experience that Dad is reading by. I cringe at the image of him peering out the window at a sound and finding me in this position.

"_Oh God_," I groan against his palm. He smiles, his eyes gleaming with laughter. I consider biting into his hand. I don't. "Would you get off me?" I ask testily. Now that we're not stuck, there's really no reason for him to be on top of me. _Besides the obvious_, and I restrain myself from wiggling out from under him because it occurs to me that his reaction to that would not help matters.

He rolls onto his back and we both lie there for a moment, looking up at the darkness and its lights. I'm winded and he's enjoying himself. I won't admit that I am too (partially). I think I could lie here for a while longer beside him in silence, but it's cold and the grass is dewy beneath me and Dad is only a few feet away and all he'd have to do is stand up and look to the left and there we'd be. So with a bracing sigh I push myself up from the ground, staying low, and crawl on my hands and knees out of sight of the sitting room windows. I don't hear him behind me, but somehow he's right beside me when I come to my feet around the corner of the house.

He doesn't say anything when I look at him only tilts his head towards the road and drags me with him. He leads me to his bike, parked at the curb a few houses down. I stand in silence, feeling suddenly extremely awkwardly, and watch as he shrugs out of his jacket and tosses it carelessly to me. I hold it to my chest for a second, look down then up again, but he's not watching me. He's already on the bike and starting it up. So I pull on the jacket and don't bother zipping it up. He holds out the helmet for me without a word. Without any further ado I swing my leg over the back and slide on behind him.

"You might wanna hang on," he says to me over the loud rumble of the engine.

"I don't—" He guns the gas and I jolt, grasp for him, and hang on tight.

The wind whips against my skin, piercing through my flimsy clothes like icicles. The helmet protects my face and keeps my hair calm. My fingers dig into the soft sweater he's wearing as I hold onto his waist. We stop a few times, and he doesn't seem to have trouble keeping the bike up, but we keep going on whenever I'm sure we've arrived. I want to ask him where we're going. But I don't. I keep quiet, hold on, and enjoy the ride. It's exhilarating, surprisingly enjoyable. I wonder why I hadn't done this sooner. Oh right, now I remember.

A little while later we pull down a dark road. The small patch of woods that runs along the outside of town is encroaching on both sides of the road. Trees are arching over above us, tangling together like they're holding hands. It's creep, in a cool way. And the moon's light reaches us and keeps the pitch darkness away. Out here, the sky is clear and the stars are many and massive.

There are no turnoffs, and the road goes on forever, seemingly leading us out into the middle of nowhere. I'm starting to get an ominous feeling about this. Am I being set up? Where is he taking me? Why and what for? The road begins to noticeably narrow, and we end up on a track that seems more like an ATV trail than an actual street.

The trees thin and we come into a clearing, a meadow type space tucked in the middle of nowhere. There are lines of light far off, so it must overlook something. It's the perfect place for a murder, I think. He slows the bike to a stop and shuts off the engine, plunging us into eerie silence. I make myself let go of him and lean back as soon as possible, despite my own reluctance. I pull the helmet off and my view brightens suddenly. I can see that down a soft incline is a wide pond, with a dock going out about ten feet into it. It's straight in front of us. To the east are the cliffs that overlook the city. We're down below them, at the base. And the west is all dry woodlands. The moonlight's brighter here than on the road.

Patrick climbs smoothly off the bike and watches me expectantly. I can't think of anything to say. So I just sit and stare. His eyes linger downwards, then his lips quirk. Shoving his key ring into his pant's pocket, he turns and starts making his way down the incline. I flounder for a second, debating with myself, before hopping off and scurrying after him. The jacket fits more comfortably now that I'm standing up. It hangs low on my waist and the sleeves are too long. The leather is surprisingly not stiff. It must be old, worn well and often. But my feet are bare and the ground isn't exactly soft.

"I thought you wanted to go to a show?" I say suddenly, remembering his initial reference to the band that's playing. I can't quite remember the name. _Whisper_ something; I'm not sure.

Patrick looks over his shoulder at me. I falter at the look in his eyes. His lips are starker and inviting in this light. I'm in big trouble. "I said they were playing. I didn't say that's where we were going. Besides," he slows so I can walk beside him, "you didn't seem all that interested."

"As I recall I wasn't interested in going anywhere with you tonight."

"Yes you were," he smirks. "You just wouldn't admit it." Well, he's got me there… sort of.

He leads me out to the dock. It wobbles unstably and I'm sure it will collapse under our weight. We go out further. He doesn't seem considered. It creaks and shivers under my every step. But it doesn't collapse.

When he reaches the end of the dock he turns on his heels and looks at me. There's something devious and desirable about the way he looks at me that has my skin crawling and my hormones doing little happy-dances. I try to ignore it. Then he takes the hem of his sweater and pulls it over his head, letting it fall in a pool of material at his feet. My brow shoots up and my lips part. If my brain was working I could probably work out what was going on. But it isn't, so I can't. The undershirt follows, and my eyes are drawn to the muscles in his stomach and how they pulse when he moves. I want to run my fingers along him. It's an almost uncontrollable urge. Luckily I'm at least five feet away, so it's possible to resist.

When his fingers go to the button of his jeans my brain finally works out why he's stripping. "Do you have any idea how freezing that water probably is?" I ask wryly.

"Never know till you find out," he smiles seductively. There's a challenge in his eyes. He's daring me. When his standing before me in just his dark boxers he lilts an eyebrow at me right before leaping off the edge of the dock. I jolt forward and can't help a sharp laugh as water comes alive and collides with him. He goes under and doesn't come back up for at least a few nerve-wracking moments.

He surfaces with a breathy chuckle and I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. His hair seems longer when it's wet and dripping down into his face, splattered over his forehead, now that the curls have been drenched into submission. His eyes are brighter. I find myself matching his smile. An airy feeling fills me.

"So, just how icy is it?" I ask archly, folding my arms and cocking an amused brow at him. He swings his arm and sends a wave of water splashing towards me. I jump to the side to avoid it, but it still sprinkles along my side. Icicles rain down along the curve of my neck and I let out a surprised, "Holy shit!"

He laughs at me. "It's not too bad once you get your whole body into it."

"Bite me," I drawl incredulously. "I'm not getting into that!"

Patrick somber suddenly, like a switch has been flipped. He pins me with an intense stare and I find myself licking my lips nervously. "Chicken…"

"What are you—five?"

He shakes it off and raises his brow casually, kicking back and treading water. He's taking himself lazily out to the middle of the pond. I wonder how deep it is. But it doesn't matter, I tell myself, because I'm not getting in. For one: there's no reason to torture myself with an ice-bath. Second: I'd have to strip down and he'd damn sure be watching. That settles it. I fold my arms again and spread my feet, watching him resolutely. But he's still staring. His stare is daring. It's piercing and taunting and coaxing all at once. It's telling me, _"Chicken."_

"Uh," a gargle of frustration rises from the back of my throat and I stomp my foot and spin in a circle. "No." I shake my head at him. He smiles knowingly. I shake my head again. "Not gonna happen," I inform him (myself). Resolutely, on my last thread of stubbornness, I turn and start to stalk off the dock.

"Kat," he calls to me.

I stop. I can't help it. I think that's the first time I've heard him say my name. It sounds good on his lips. I like how it rumbles out of him, smooth and dark and deep. Some sort of indescribable yearning shoots through me. It may be lust. It may not be. But it's something and I can't make my feet move any farther. I turn around and eye him in resignation. He sees it. He smiles in satisfaction, knowing he's won.

His jacket slips off my shoulders easily enough. My sweater unzips without snagging. It falls on top of his jacket at my feet. The only reason I lift my arms to pull the tank top over my head is that I'm wearing a bra underneath, otherwise it would be staying on—I tell myself stubbornly.

E-Kat: If that helps you sleep at night.

S-Kat: Shut up.

The drawstring of my pants slips out of its tie with a light little tug, and the pants slip down my hips and fall. I kick them into the pile and pull my hair out of the loose tie that holds it back. And I'm left to stand bare in my bra and panties. I do all of this without ever looking up. I don't need to. I can feel his eyes on me as if it were his hands roaming over every inch of newly exposed skin. I feel awkward and self-conscious, and I hate it. So it doesn't take much coaxing to get myself to dive off the dock in a hurry and submerge myself in the icy-black water.

My body spasms as I go under, the cold is too much to bear the first few seconds. But as I start to move my body under the water, twist and kick towards the surface, the cold settles into a dull ache that I can almost ignore as long as I keep my body moving. The awkwardness starts to fade almost immediately. It's easier in the water. I don't feel so exposed to his prying eyes. My confidence starts to come back. I emerge with a wide smile and gasp in a desperate breath. I turn in a circle, looking for him, and find myself too close for comfort. He must have swum closer while I was under. I start to wade back for space, but he follows me.

My legs keep kicking. The ground is nowhere to be found. "I didn't think it'd be this deep," I say breathily, the pink tinting my cheeks as he comes closer and closer. My breathing is coming in short gasps, and it's not because of the water. He's zeroing in on me. He's cornering me. I feel trapped. This isn't good. And what's worse is that I really like what he's doing, despite the nervousness. But it's not right.

He's nearly on me now. There's no space between us, barely enough to keep us treading above surface. I shiver. He smiles. His eyes darken in that way that seems to liquefy my insides. He reaches an arm towards me, my face turns, and he points over my shoulder casually. "It gets shallower just over there," he promises with a dark-honey tone. The look in his eyes says he knows what he's doing to me, and he loves it.

My eyes narrow. "Right then," I mutter, hardening. I kick and thrust myself backwards with grace that only comes with defying gravity.

My aim is to touch the ground and maybe bring back more of my control. But a strong arm slithers around my waist and my plan goes up in flames. He spins me back around fluidly, and I find myself pressed against him, skin to skin. His hand is in my hair, on my neck, and he's pulling me to him. I'm tempted. Insanely so, and my brain shuts down when his mouth crashes down onto mine. It sends shock-tingles convulsing through my system and rockets my heart into hyper-drive. My legs wind around his waist airily and somehow we still manage to stay above water. But it's lapping at our chins and threatening to drown us as the kiss intensifies. He's deepening; he's pulling at me, more and more, even though there's no more space between us. His lips are a sharp contrast of heat against my own shivering temperature. The heat seems to build. I'm afraid it will explode. But before it gets the chance I rip away from him, gasping for breath.

He comes at me again, breathily laughing his enjoyment. His arm has still got me, so I can't get far. He leans in again but I turn my face so our jaws rub against each other.

"Don't—" My voice comes out harder, sharper than I imagined it could. Suddenly, I'm almost immune to him. Not quite, but enough so that I can resist, that I can think again. That I can say: no.

Patrick pulls back slightly and his brow furrows as he searches my face for something. "What is it now?"

My arms are waving back and forth at my sides, keeping me above water. My eyes are fixated on a point in the darkness across the pond. I can't look at him. If I do, I'll melt. I just know I will. "I told you," I sigh, a touch of weariness in my voice. The bitterness is in there, underneath. "I'm not like that."

He pulls back farther and his dark eyes flash with irritation. "Like what? Human?"

I scowl and slip out of his grasp. I turn and swim back to the dock. I grip the edge and try to pull myself up, but he pulls me back down into the water midway. I turn on him. "I wonder how Susie would feel about this," I bite out nastily, shaking off his hand on my arm. My feet touch down in the sandy bottom and I feel stronger.

"What?" His face is blank. How can he possibly not know what I mean?

I huff out a breath of frustration and my back hits the edge of the dock. "What about Susie?" I ask more insistently, intent on an actual answer.

"What about her?" he shrugs.

I don't even try to hold back the grimace and scoff, I'm too appalled. "You really disgust me," I drawl, treading against him. He corners me, closing the space between us, and propping his hands on the dock on either side of me, effectively trapping me.

"It's not like that," he insists lowly. His hand slides along my collarbone and goes up to stroke his thumb along my lower lip. My body quivers, angering me more at my own reaction. His irritation seems to soften. "And nothing's like _this_." It comes out a fierce whisper.

My body tries to lean into him. He's leaning over me, pressing against me. I can't think. "What do you mean?" I stutter lamely, craning my neck to avoid slipping back into another kiss. Enough passion, damn it, I think. I can't breathe.

"I mean… you're different from other girls. You're special." I almost moan. My body's going pliant against him. I'm melting, damn it. "You've got a mind of your own… and spirit." He pauses, seems to search for the right words. Something flickers over his charming expression, something that makes me think he's flustered. But with the intensity, it is too hard to tell. "You're the most difficult woman I've ever met. You have no idea. You drive me crazy," he says heatedly. He doesn't sound too happy about it, more like frustrated. He's slowly leaning down onto me again, and I can feel myself welcoming him. "And you're cool. You're not hung up on stupid fantasies. You're not all clingy and unrealistic. We can just..." His words trail off as he goes to devour me again. But something about what he said stiffens my spine.

I whip my head away, turning out of his almost-kiss. "We can just what?" I demand. I'm affronted, and I'm not totally sure why yet.

Patrick lets out a frustrated sigh and his head falls to my shoulder for a second, his demeanor losing wind. He pulls back and gives me space. "Nothing, it didn't come out right. I just meant that you're not like all the other girls. We can have fun and—"

"Oh." It clicks. "I get it." My hands hit his chest and shove him back. As he regains balance I spin and haul myself up from the water, climbing back up to the dock. I scoop my pile of clothes up as I stomp away.

I'm halfway up the hill when he catches up to me. "You get what?"

"I'm real special," I bite out with venom, my pace quickening. He keeps up easily. "I'm a total slut that you can bang and not worry about stalking you," I turn to glare at him and with dripping sarcasm mimic, "'cause I've got a mind of my own."

"Ugh," he huffs out in aggravation, tossing his hands up in the air. "That's not what I meant."

"I bet," I snarl.

I stop at the top of the hill and hurry to drag my clothes back on, never mind my dripping skin that's getting them all soaked. I turn and throw his jacket back at him with all the strength I have. When I'm clothed again, I take off down the trail that leads to the road that will lead to civilization.

I don't feel him following me, and I huff and puff my anger out all the way down the road. I'm practically sprinting. The darkness isn't even creeping me out, that's how pissed I am. Jerk! I should've known. I did know! But I just didn't listen to myself.

He wants to have fun! I'm real special to him. I'm so special he wants to hookup. He's so happy he's finally found an independent girl that can handle what he wants. Jerk! I should've known. Why did I let myself care? I let myself fall for that mysterious bad boy charm and those dark eyes and that intensity. It's sickening.

My feet are just beginning to kill me when I hear the soft roar of his motorcycle approaching from behind me. The headlight penetrates the deep darkness as he gets closer. The bike comes to a simmering stop as he coasts along beside me. I'm glaring out in front of me. I won't look at him. I can't. I might become violent if I do. Or worse, I might get teary because I was stupid enough to feel something. Stupid, stupid, stupid: Katharina. Jerk!

Patrick Verona. I seethe.

"Where are you going?" he asks exasperatedly.

"Away from you!" I yell.

"You're going to walk all the way home?" he asks, making it clear he thinks I'm stupid.

"Yes."

"You're barefoot, at least ten miles away from home, and barely dressed. It's the middle of the night and you're going to walk ten miles across town, alone, like this?"

"Yes," I snap stubbornly. I know how ridiculous it sounds.

He lets out a harsh hiss of air and continues to crawl along beside me. "Kat," he says again with strained patience. I still like the way he says my name. And that just pisses me off. "Get on the bike."

"Yeah, right."

"You're being childish. Just get on. I'll take you home."

"Go away," I breathe nastily, folding my arms and scowling into the darkness. I feel like I'm pouting. But I can't be. I don't pout.

"Damn it, Kat. Get on the damn bike. I'll just ride along side you the whole damn way anyways. So just save us both a lot of time and trouble and get on."

I come to an abrupt stop. I still haven't looked at him. And I don't want to. I don't want to get on the bike either. I don't want to have to press against him and hold on and— "Whatever," I sigh in resignation. There's no way I'll make it ten miles. And if he won't go away—

I'm just doing this to get rid of him, the quicker the better—I tell myself as I reluctantly climb onto the back of the bike and take the helmet he offers me.

The ride home seems to take at least triple the time it took the other way. I try everything I can not to hold onto him, not to have my breasts flattened against his back. I hold onto the sides of my seat instead. But I relent when he takes a corner too fast and I almost tip off. The warmth radiating from him chases the chill away. Because I was freezing and shivering violently as the wind whipped against my wet skin.

We pull up to the curb. My house is completely dark, besides the light coming from my room. But the front door will be locked so I'll have to climb through the window again anyways. But at least there's less of a chance of getting caught now that Dad's asleep.

I whip off the helmet and practically leap from the back. I toss it to him and try to make a run for it. But his hand comes around my wrist and stops me.

"Hey," he says. My anger has cooled along the ride, but I'm still resolute. So I stare at him emotionlessly. "Would it make a difference if I say this whole thing is just a big misunderstanding?" I stare some more. "Yeah, that's what I thought." He lets go and I back away. He watches me go. I spin around and head around to the side of the house to find my makeshift ladder (trellis smothered in honeysuckle vines). I can breathe again once I listen to him ride away.

Climbing up to my terrace is surprisingly much easier a task than going down it. I make it up and over my banister without spraining anything. The window is still open. The light is still on, just as I left it.

I slip through the window, and my foot gets caught. I almost take a face-plant before I catch myself. My palm stings, but it is better than my face would've been.

I push up to my feet and dust myself off. I'm shivering and wet and mad and hurt and to top it all off: I look up to find Dad sitting in the armchair in the corner.

"Have a nice time?" he asks.

_Shit._


	4. I'll Show You How to Have a Good Time

"**I'll Show You How to Have a Good Time"**

_It can't be._

I look again. But he's gone. I could've sworn I saw someone I used to know. But it couldn't have been him. It's impossible.

I narrowly avoid a volleyball careening towards my head, and only have enough time to dodge and miss my chance at serving it back over the net. It snaps me back to realty quick enough and I shake my prior thoughts away and focus on the game.

I hate gym.

Coach Williams has a tinny radio blaring in the background, set up on one of the bleachers in the gymnasium. The net takes up half the gym. It's reds against greens, and the boys are practicing jump shots on the other side of the gym. Boys get basketball and girls get volleyball. I get reprimanded because I can't resist pointing out how sexist Couch Williams is. I'd rather jump shots than this. I have to keep hopping, and sidestepping, and leaping, and slapping. It's good for working out frustration. But it's also making me ever angrier. No. I'm not angry. I'm just annoyed.

I don't become really angry till I see Patrick enter in from the side door, behind Williams' back. He's pacing the sidelines yelling at the boys while effectively ignoring the volleyball game. Like I said: sexist.

It's my turn to serve. I tear my eyes away from Patrick, who's standing in the shadows watching me. He likes to lurk. And I serve the ball back over the net rather ungracefully. I weave through a gaggle of useless girls to spike it back, but my hand has a mind of its own, and spikes it to the sidelines, where it narrowly misses Patrick's head.

"Whoops," I mutter unapologetically as he and half my team stare at me with incredulity. Chelsea jogs to retrieve the ball and I send him a sticky sweet smile before dismissing him. I can still feel his eyes on me, but my stubbornness keeps me from acknowledging it. I lose myself in the game, injuring more than a few who get in my way. And when the bell rings, dismissing the gym, Patrick's gone.

I shower and change and lazily make my way to my locker. I have a free period now that I should spend in study hall, but I just can't make my mind concentrate. I tried this morning with my first three classes. Let's just say it was a bust. So I break out my book and shove my bag into the locker. When I slam the door closed… I see Susie's face.

"Hey Kat," she says perkily. I want to gag at her cheeriness. She's leaning against her locker in a way that reminds me of Patrick. She must've picked it up from him. It doesn't look right on her. "Um, I was wondering," she starts, looking a bit uncomfortable.

I sigh heavily and fall back against my locker. I know I'll regret this. "Yes?"

"You know the dance is coming up soon."

I really don't like where this seems to be heading. My brow furrows though because I really can't guess what she could possibly want to talk to me about concerning the dance. Oh God, this doesn't have anything to do with Patrick, does it? "Yeah…" I say real slowly, wishing I had run away when I had the chance.

She lets out a quick breath and plays with a loose thread on her mini-skirt. "Well, I was wondering if maybe you could help me."

"Susie?" I sigh impatiently. "Spit it out already."

"Okay." Her head snaps up. "I want to ask Bianca to go with me. But I've only really exchanged a few words with her. So I was wondering if you could invite me over to your house this afternoon so that maybe she could have a chance to get to know me better."

"…"

Wait. What?

"Bianca?" I say. It comes out slow and befuddled. I'm sure I look slow and befuddled as well. I can see that she's obviously nervous, from the way she's looking at me. But all I can manage is a blank stare. "Bianca…" I say again, mulling it over. "My sister?" I ask dubiously.

"Yes," she bobs her head, a smile curling her glossy lips. "Oh man, I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable. I just really like you and I know most people think you're real mean and scary, but really that's just a rough hide. I can see that you're a nice person and I just thought that you would be the person I should go to, to… well, you know."

"Uh… I don't think I do. You want to go to the dance with Bianca? Like, a date?"

"Yes." She's being patient with me.

Now I think I get it. "But aren't you with Patrick?" How can she want Bianca over Patrick? For one thing—

Susie laughs, I think at me. "Not _with_ him, with him, Silly. We're just friends. Besides, he doesn't do that sort of thing. I've known him for years and I don't think I've ever seen him in anything that could be remotely considered formalwear. And he doesn't dance." As far as she knows, I think. He danced with me.

Stop. Don't go there.

"I may not have many friends," I say wryly, "but I'm pretty sure friendliness doesn't cover what you two were doing."

Susie has the grace to look uncomfortable and her cheeks grow hued with blood. "I know what it seems like, but we're not like that. He was my first. He helped me realize—well, anyway, we just kinda—God," she huffs out a flustered breath, "I don't know how to explain it. But the point is that I really like your sister, and I was hoping for your help."

"Good luck," I frown. _Tread carefully_, I remind myself. "Look Susie, I'd love to help you out, really I would. But Bianca doesn't swing that way."

Susie frowns too, confusion clouding her baby blue eyes. "But… I saw her web-show. She kissed that other girl, right? I thought she was bi too."

"Oh great," I groan to myself. Leave it to B to get me into a situation this awkward. How do I explain this without being rude? "That was a stunt my idiotic little sister pulled in order to get more viewers of the male persuasion, in order to get money to buy herself new shoes." God, I feel horrible. I cringe at hearing aloud how vapid my baby sister is. Or sounds. She really isn't that bad. She's just… young and confused.

"Oh." Susie looks crestfallen, and I feel guilty. Damn Bianca. "Well, that's alright. I understand. Thanks anyway." She starts to walk away when I follow after, rather reluctantly. We walk down the hall side by side in silence for awhile. It's awkward. It's uncomfortable. And it's all Bianca's fault.

I wait to speak until we get out to the quad and seat ourselves on the grass under a birch tree. It's pretty secluded. Not many people are outside at the moment. So I feel safe enough to go ahead and ask. "Susie, about Patrick—"

"Oh yeah, I forgot that you've got a thing for him."

"What?" I draw back. "No I don't." I sound lame and ridiculous. She sends me a look that says she agrees. "Alright, so maybe I do. But it doesn't matter."

"Why not?"

"Because—because me being attracted to him isn't gonna make him change, and it's not gonna change my mind about my decisions in life."

"What does that mean?" she asks, bewildered.

I sigh. I really don't want to get into this. "It's complicated. Anyway, I was wondering—you're 'thing' with him. It's just what? Friends with benefits?"

"Um," she considers this for a moment, "Not exactly." I notice a girl glaring at us and I feel ticked off. But I want to hear this, so I turn back to her and try to ignore the gothic brunette across the quad. "We used to date, a few years back, which was before I realized I liked boys _and_ girls. He was actually the first person I told. We go together, on and off, occasionally, but it's always pretty casual. Patrick doesn't do anything non-casual," she chuckles. Her eyes are glazed over like she's remembering something. It makes me uncomfortable.

I fidget. "So that's why you didn't act threatened before. You really didn't care."

"That you're hot for Verona?" she laughs again. "If it bothered me I'd spend half of every day jealous and pissed at one girl or another. You can't take it too seriously."

"You mean you can't take _him_ too seriously." I sound bitter. It annoys me. I'm suddenly remembering my first impression of Patrick Verona. _'He's just trying to act mysterious so he can get laid.'_ I didn't realize just how well I'd summed him up till now. He'd tricked me, gotten me to consider other possibilities, that there was something deeper in him. That was my mistake.

"Hm," Susie murmurs uncertainly. She looks like she wants to argue with me. But she doesn't.

Okay, I huff angrily. "What the hell is with her?" I ask, nodding towards the Goth-girl shooting daggers at us. I've never seen her before, so it can't be something I've done to piss her off. It's gotta be about Susie. But either way, she's irritating the hell out of me and I want to stomp over there and demand to know what the fuck her problem is. I'm about to when I feel Susie's hand on my arm. I turn to look at her and she's rolling her eyes at the girl.

"That's Nina."

"Nina?"

"Nina Grosse. She's a senior. And a total bitch."

"What's her problem?" My hands are gripping the book a little too tightly. This whole day has been one irritating thing after another. And I'm sure it's just a reaction to my anger at Patrick. All weekend I could do nothing but seethe. I'm pathetic. Wasting all this energy on a guy. What's wrong with me?

Susie snorts unladylike and can't conceal her petty smile. "Her problem is the same problem I would have if I took things too seriously."

"Oh God," I groan. It can't be. Not another one. "Don't tell me she's another one of Patrick's."

"Not really, but that's not what she thinks."

I turn and cock a brow at her. I'm sure the poor girl just got lead on, seduced, then dissed and dismissed by Padua's favorite bad-boy. I can't blame her for being pissed.

"So you sure Bianca's not bi?" she asks me, a slippery smile on her face and a twinkle of teasing in her eyes. "How do you know until you try?"

What do I say to that? Go on ahead and give it your best shot? Stay away from my non-lesbian sister? I really don't like thinking the words bisexual and Bianca in the same sentence. Mostly because of the sexual part. The bi is a bit easier to swallow.

Susie nudges me with her elbow and I can't help but fantasize jumping to my feet and running away from her. But I don't. I want to be nice. Shockingly. "She won't be able to go to the dance anyway." There, a safe response.

"What? Why in the world not?" Susie looks appalled. I'm not surprised.

"Because our Dad is insanely strict and the rules are if I don't date, Bianca doesn't date. And even if I were willing to go to the dance, even if I had a dress, even if I had a bearable date, I wouldn't be able to because I'm grounded."

"What did you do?" she asks sneakily.

"I snuck out after curfew and he caught me climbing back into my window." No sense explaining why or who I snuck out with. I'd rather not have that advertised. Besides, Dad doesn't know I snuck out to be with a _guy_. If he did, I wouldn't be grounded, I'd be getting a hysterectomy.

And Patrick would be getting a vasectomy.

I can't help but smile at that thought.

Just then the lunch bell rings and the hallways inside are flooded with bustling throngs of teenagers. We sit for awhile talking about nothing when I spot Mandela coming towards us. The crowd parts like the red sea for her. She glances anxiously between Susie and me, and just stands there until I bite out a reassuring smile. She kneels down in the grass beside us, leaning her back against the base of the tree.

"Kit-Kat—" a familiar voice singsongs. I groan inwardly and turn my head to see my little sister skipping towards us. A huge smile is plastered on her face and her cheeks are flushed. She's breathy and too excited for comfort hen she reaches us a second later. "Ooh," she squeals, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "You won't believe what just happened to me."

"Hey, B, do you know Susie?" I can't help it. The way Susie brightened when Bianca came to us made my stomach sink. This is way too weird. Even for me.

Bianca glances hurriedly at Susie and Mandela before reverting her attention back to me. "Yeah, we've met. Hey," she says breathlessly.

"I—" Susie starts with a smile.

"I need your help!" Bianca bursts. She collapses to her knees in front of me and starts insistently patting my thigh. "You have to go to the dance with me!"

"Hah," I guffaw. "You're hilarious."

"No, really, Kat. I just got asked out by the hottest guy I've ever seen. He wants to take me to the dance. You have to go. You have to. Please, Kat, please. Pretty please, for me, I'll owe you my life. I'll do anything you want. Just please, please, please go to the dance for me!"

"Bianca—"

"Please!" she cries. Her excitement is quickly down-turning and I brace myself for her persistent whining. "Kat please," she whimpers. She bends over like she's praising Allah and rests her head on my lap, her hands grasping mine tightly. "I'll die if you don't do this for me." What a drama-queen.

"You know I can't, even if I was willing. I'm grounded remember?"

"But you can make Daddy take it back. You've always been his favorite. You can convince him to let you go."

"B—"

"Katharina!"

She's making a scene. People are starting to stare. I fidget and resist being a bitch. "I'll see what I can do," I sigh. I know I'll regret this. I'll just have to tell her no. But at least now I can wait so she can have her hissy-fit at home and not in the center of the quad with the whole school watching. I don't really give a damn, but once she calm down, she would. And then I'd have to hear about it for the next three years.

She leaps up like her skimpy little skirt is on fire. Her smile nearly rips her lips and she's hopping up and down like the energizer bunny. "I love you. I love you. I love you!" she squeals.

When she totters off in her impractical heels I watch her go in misery and see Patrick leaning against the stucco building on the other side of the quad, watching me. His grin is full of amusement and his eyes are thick with something unreadable. There's a guy I've seen before standing beside him, laughing about something. I tear my eyes away from him like he doesn't exist. But I start to regret it when I turn back to the girls and see the look on Susie's face. Damn it, Bianca. This is just way too screwed up. What did I ever do to deserve having to deal with this?

"I'm telling you," I say softly, "she's not worth your time. I should know—I live with her."

Susie shakes her head, swallows, and looks away. When she turns her gaze back to me there's a horribly fake smile stretching her lips. "I'm gonna go say hi to Mick and Patrick. I'll see you later, Kat."

I watch her go and am already annoyed with the guilt eating at me. But she's heading for Patrick and that guy (Mick, obviously) so I don't look after her for long. I turn back to Mandela and smile. "So, what ya been up to this weekend?"

She brightens at the attention and proceeds to jabbering excitedly about her itinerary for the past three days. I try to listen. I try to appreciate my friend. But I can't. My mind is elsewhere and it's an impossible feat to try to bring it back.

In fact, brain power doesn't come back to me until the final bell has rung and I am standing in the parking lot, unlocking my car door. It's pathetic that I feel him come up behind me before I hear him. The smell of musk mixed with smoked sandalwood wafts up my olfactory senses and I can't help the extra thump it jolts into my heart. Warmth spreads. Annoyance follows.

A hand presses over the seal of the door from over my shoulder, keeping me from opening it. I feel him lean into me. I consider lifting my leg backwards and kicking him. For some reason, I don't. That irritates me too.

I turn slowly, press my back to the car, and turn my chin up at him. He's towering over me, leaning in too close for comfort. I can feel his breath on me. It smells like hot cinnamon.

I lick my lips then plaster a polite smile on them. Taking a calm breath, my sarcasm sears. "Can I help you with something?" my eyebrow quirks.

"Hm," he murmurs suggestively, turning mockingly considerate for a moment. "Let me think about that for a minute. So many remarks, so little time."

My patience is lost. "You know something, Verona? You're very determined to cause yourself pain." He smirks and leans closer. We're almost touching now and I have to swallow deeply to find my voice. "And if you come any closer to me you'll be wishing you'd heeded my warnings."

"Are you going to hurt me, Stratford?" he wonders mockingly. He doesn't ease up, but he doesn't lean in that final centimeter either. He just hovers. His amusement is evident. His desire is palpable.

I press my back harder into the car, my finger skim along the steel as they hang limp at my sides. "I want to."

"I don't think you do," he murmurs lowly. "I think I know what you want."

"I highly doubt that," I try to scoff, but fail miserably. I'm sure my anxiety is thinly veiled and as hard as I try I can't shut out the heat spreading through me. I want to close my eyes and press into him. I want to stomp on his foot, kick his shin, and drive away. I don't know which to do first.

"You want me to kiss you."

I make a face, look taken aback. I hang on desperately to my escaping sarcasm. It's my only defense left. "Am I that transparent?" I gasp. My body moves forward, pressing into him. My hips slant. Surprise flickers through his heated eyes before lust takes over. "I don't want you. I _need_ you. Oh baby," I moan dramatically. Just as his lids flutter and a groan boils up his throat at our friction—my act drops. I pull back, duck under his arm, step back coyly, and roll my eyes."If only we could give in to this… intense passion between us," I tell him passionately, gesturing between us. Then laugh.

He smirks at me, still leaning on my car door. His smirk isn't mocking. It's proud. I like that. It fills me with pleasure. But I have to ignore it. Or I'll be right back where I started. He shakes his head to himself in good humor and turns to eye me. "Most difficult woman I've ever met," he murmurs to himself.

I feel satisfied. My smile is genuine. "What can I say? I'm not easy," I drawl meaningfully. "Now, if you don't mind—" I start to squeeze between him and the car, trying once more to get in, when Bianca bounces up to us.

"I just got invited to Nick Shooter's party tonight. It's _'anti-dance'_," she says proudly.

Patrick and I exchange glances. "That's awesome," I drawl dryly. "Too bad you'll have to miss it."

"No I won't," she says smartly, her smile much too smug for my liking.

"Oh?" I challenge.

"Because Dad's got a nightshift at the hospital tonight and you're going to drive me."

"Uh, no, I'm not."

"Yes, you are," she states back. Her eyes go slyly from me to Patrick, who's still hovering behind me. "Or I might accidentally forget that Daddy doesn't know that a motorcycle-riding boy climbed through your window last Friday night and dragged you out of the house with him." My mouth drops and she puts a finger to her lips. "I don't think Daddy would be as understanding about you sneaking out if he knew what you were really doing while you were out…"

"You wouldn't."

"Try me."

I look over my shoulder to see Patrick smiling amusedly down at me. I shoot him a glare before turning back to my sister with a resigned sigh. "One day, Bianca, one day you'll regret this."

We climb in and as I start the car, Patrick crouches down and leans his arms on the windowsill. "See you tonight, Stratford." He winks at me then retreats before I can smack him.

I turn to Bianca with my deadliest glare. See if I ever do anything for her again. She can just forget about that dance! And me covering for her in the future when she undoubtedly does something stupid and against the rules? Yeah, that's not happening.

Later on, I'm lying in bed on my back, staring up at the ceiling. I'm dressed in low-rider jeans and an off-the-shoulder peasant top that has elastic bindings around the waist, and exposes a lot of midriff. Why, you may ask, am I dressed like this? I have no clue. I feel sexy. I typically don't like going out in public while feeling sexy. It goes against my beliefs. But I am nonetheless dressed like this and planning to go out. It's his fault. I'm sure. I want to get him back. I want to torture him. I want to make him pay.

And I will.

"Okay, Dad's gone," Bianca whispers conspiratorially after tiptoeing into my room in a very slutty mini-skirt and halter top. I look her up and down and consider protesting. I don't want my baby sis going out like that. I can't imagine the kind of trouble she could get into. And I'll have to clean up the mess for her. I open my mouth, and then close it. It's not worth the fight that'll ensue.

I let out a heavy sigh and brace myself. Climbing off the bed, I pull my hair out of its tie and let the chocolate waves fall over my shoulders and down my back. I slip my boots on, pull my favorite maroon fatigue jacket on over the top, and grab my keys. "Alright then, let's get this over with."

I should have dealt with Dad. Never again will Bianca blackmail me into going to a high school party with her. Never again.

We sit outside the three-story sea captain's house, the car parked at the curb in a long line of much flashier vehicles. The front lawn is infested with partiers. Loud cheers and whooping mingle with the blaring music. All the windows are flung wide open and the lights are bright. There are strands of Christmas lights strung up along the bushes in the front yard, which travel around the house and into the back, where I can hear people splashing in the pool.

Bianca is sitting on her hands as she looks out the passenger-side window. Her smile is sickening and her eyes are lit up as she takes it all in. I consider waiting in the car for her. But the idea gets tossed aside when I catch sight of Patrick's bike, parked a few cars down from us. He must be inside already.

"You ready?" Bianca asks excitedly, like we're about to jump into a high-wire game of strategic paint-ball.

"Ecstatic," I drawl, trying my hand at peppy. I fail miserably.

Bianca leaps from the car and totters off, swaying unsteadily as she makes her way across the grass in her spiky heels. I laugh at the sight and trail after her. I step on at least six discarded red-plastic cups before I reach the front door, which is propped open and crowded. We have to squeeze our way through and I get a few elbows jabbed to the stomach before I find myself in an expansive foyer. The wreckage in here makes me grimace with pity for the poor fool who lives here.

We survey the place together. Bianca's eyes lit up again and she turns to me. "Well, I'm off." And with that, she scampers away.

I watch her go in a daze. How is it, I wonder, that we're related so closely? I'd chalk it up to adoption if I hadn't been there when she was born. As I stand here feeling awkward and out of place, I find myself already regretting coming here in the first place. I'm just realizing how long it's been since I was a party-girl. I really don't remember how to do parties anymore. It makes me sad. And that makes me sick at myself. I'm proud of who I am now, who I've become, and am happy with the change I made. So why am I feeling this way?

"You look lost," a smoky voice rumbles through me. I jolt. I didn't sense him approach. How is that possible? But here he is, standing behind me, his mouth leaning into my ear, his chest brushing subtly against my back. I can't smell him here. There's too much around us, not enough fresh air to breeze his scent through me.

I turn towards him, grinning, just as Katy Perry's _Damn_ beats itself through the speakers. Not my style, but I've heard it at least five times. The wall between Bianca's room and mine is pretty thin. "Just looking," I mumble. My eyes go up and down him; I feel myself warm. He's not wearing his usual leather jacket. Instead, he's got a simple wife-beater on under a loose button-up with the navy-blue sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the lapels left open. He looks good—but I don't care. I don't.

"Wanna get out of here?"

"Desperately," I sigh. "But not with you," I add with a bright smile, brushing past him. I glance over my shoulder as I walk away. He turns to watch me go with a sexy smirk. His eyes are glinting with laughter. Then they fall low. I like it. I turn the corner and let out a breath, falling back against the hallway wall once he's out of sight.

"Kat," Bianca yells over the music. I open my eyes to see her coming at me in a hurry, something akin to worry on her face. I frown at that.

I open my mouth, but it closes when my spine stiffens. Patrick rounds the corner and leans his shoulder on the wall a few inches from me, one hand stuffed casually in his pocket. He's watching me as she reaches us. Her hands are on me. And yep, sure enough, that is worry in her eyes, with a tinge of panic. "That didn't take long. What happened to you?" Something obviously upset her.

"Um, I… I just… uh, let's just get out of here, K?"

"Bianca," I sigh. "What happened?" My protective-sister instincts kick in and I need to know what has her so upset. She was stoked to go to this thing and not even five minutes later she wants to run away.

Bianca runs a hand through her hair, something I haven't seen her do in at least a year. She nibbles on her bottom lip and her eyes jump from me to Patrick then over her shoulder at the archway into the kitchen, where she just came from. "Please Kat, I just wanna go home. Can we get out of here? Now."

"B—" My eyes follow her fretful gaze and my throat closes up. There he is. "Oh my God…" I don't think I can breathe. My throat is sealed tight; my heart is thumping so loudly I can hear it over the music. It beats against my chest so hard it's painful. It can't be. My eyes are screwing with me. I blink. And he's still there.

Tall and chiseled and dark and coming through the archway Bianca just ran from. He looks about the same. His hair is still cut short and a sandy blonde shade, messy and stuck up. His eyes still sparkle with mischief and sex, and his smirk is still crooked and charming. He's wearing a tight gray T-shirt that looks worn and threaded. I recognize it. He's had it since he was fourteen. His jeans are torn and rumbled. His boots are caked with mud. His jaw is still cleft and his dimples are still there when he grins. And his arm is flung over a girl that looks nearly identical to Megan Fox. She's dressed like her too.

Nothing has changed.

"Kat—" Bianca's strained voice breaks me out of my slow-motion stupor. My eyes are wide and my breaths are sharp pants. My hands are squeezed tight around hers. "Kat, come on, let's go."

"W-w-what is he doing here?" I manage to croak out through my gasps. I'm hyperventilating. I feel like I'm about to pass out.

"I don't know." Bianca shakes her head vehemently and there's a sickening pity in her eyes and voice. She sounds like she's about to cry she's so overcome with pity. It makes me feel worse. "Kat, please, we need to go."

I feel my head shake. I double over, hands on my thighs, and struggle for breath. I don't know where he went, but I can't see him anymore. It makes it a little easier. But still I'm trembling and gasping and there are sobs trying rise up my throat. I swallow them back and concentrate on not passing out.

"She's having a panic attack," someone says. "We need to get her out of here. Help me." It's Bianca again.

I don't hear a response, but I feel someone on me. I'm suddenly being dragged down the hall and out the front door. My feet touch grass and I find myself in a shadowy corner of the front yard. The music is still sending hammers through my skull. But the light is gone. My breathing is still coming in short gasps. I'm still doubled over.

Someone kneels down in the grass in front of me. Someone else is still holding me up from behind. A hand grabs my chin and lifts it. My eyes flutter open and I see Bianca. "Calm down. You're alright. We're alright. Everything is fine. Just breathe, Katharina. Just breathe. Everything is fine." Someone's rubbing soothing circles over my back and Bianca is running her fingers lightly up and down my cheek.

"I've never seen her like this."

"I have," Bianca says gravely.

"Stop," I hear myself command. My voice is shaky. It's not much of a command. "I'm fine." I shake whoever is on me off and fall to my knees. The fire in my lungs is dying down and I can breathe without the pain now. My eyes are watering, not crying, just watering. Control is so close I can feel it. I shut my eyes, lean into the grass on my hands and knees, and block the world out. I chase my thoughts away, forget everything, and I struggle for calm.

When I feel like I can trust my control again, I snivel quietly, swipe at my messy face, and push myself back on my haunches. The first thing I see is a worried Bianca, her brow creased with concern and her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. She's still kneeling in front of me, her hands hovering unsurely. The second thing I see is Patrick. He's standing uneasily a few steps back from her, his hands shoved in his pockets awkwardly. He's frowning down at me. I cover my face in my hands and take a deep, shuddery breath. I feel like I'm going to cry. That can't happen. I lower my hands and shake myself, physically shaking away the breakdown.

My hands fist around a clump of grass and my eyes stare down at them. I lick my lips, swallow past the lump in my throat, and speak once I'm sure my voice won't crack. "Bianca…" I sound unsure. I sound meek. I cringe. My voice hardens, "That was Dean back there, wasn't it? I didn't hallucinate."

Her gaze dropped and she nodded softly. "Yeah, that was Dean."

I nod. I brace myself. That was Dean. Dean Moss. Here… Not in Ohio. Not in Seattle. Here... "I need to…" What do I need? I need to cry. I need to run away. I need to be alone. I need to get a hold of myself. I need my castle walls back. I need my drawbridge. I need…

"Come on, let's go home."

"No." I shake my head. No.

"No?" Bianca thinks she heard me wrong.

"No." I look up at her. I feel resolute. I think I look it too. "No. I don't want to go home."

"But—"

"You wanted to party, Bianca."

"Yeah, but—"

"We-Are-Not-Leaving."

We stare at each other for a long time. Then she finally looks away, sighs, and nods. "Okay, we won't go home."

I push to my feet. I waver for a second. My legs are shaky. But I'm alright. I steady myself. I start to slowly stalk back towards the house.

"Who the hell is Dean?"

"This is so not a good idea," Bianca mutters to herself from behind me, ignoring Patrick's question. Good. She better not talk to him about Dean. It's none of his business. "Kat—" Bianca grabs my arm and gingerly holds me back as I try to step inside. "You're not going to do anything stupid, are you?"

"Of course not," I bite out bitterly, and then send her a forced smile for reassurance. Pulling out of her grip, I weave my way through the bodies and find myself in the kitchen. There's a boy there I recognize from school, him and his buddies are passing out the red cups. But there's a counter in the corner, behind them, with an array of bottles stacked on it. I take a cup and look inside, with a whiff and a sip I determine that the weak beer in this cup is not going to cut it.

The ditzy song fades and in its place comes _I'd come for you_, by Nickelback.

I spin around the island counter and squeeze through the block of boys. I 'accidentally' shove my heel into someone's toes when they run their hand over my breast as I pass by. He grunts and hops, leaving me free to lean my pelvis against the corner-counter and pour a bit of this and that into my cup. I take a taste and determine that it isn't as bad as it seems, and gulp down some more, cringing as it burns all the way down. Fire licks through my throat, down my chest, to settle in my stomach. But it starts dulling my senses almost immediately. So I give myself a refill.

Tipping out of the kitchen with the red cup between my lips, I bump into a hard body and glance up to find Patrick looking at me strangely, his brow raised. I move my shoulders at him and continue on my way. I feel him follow me, but he stays far enough back so that I can semi-ignore him.

_Next Contestant_ blares into my ears. I smile. Finally, I song I can rock out to. I weave my way into the living room, where most of the dancing seems to be going on, and take the cup into one hand, letting it hang at my side as my hips sway and I shimmy to the tempo. My eyes close. There are bodies all around me, brushing up against me, moving with me, and it feels nice. I lose myself in the song, my lips move with it, but my voice is silent. I can't quite get all the words in my head, because it's sort of fuzzy up there. But it's a nice fuzzy, one I remember. It's kinda like riding a bike. Once you learn, you never forget. It's instinct. Like sex.

Hands on my hips bring me back to the room, but not all the way, because I'm stuck in between. Someone moves my hair over my shoulder; I can feel their hot breath on my neck. Our hips fit together. Patrick pops into my head. But I turn and it's not him. It's not even close.

Black eyed peas' _Boom-boom-pow_ vibrates through the speakers just as I hear, "Hello Kitty-Kat." His voice is smoky and smooth, close to Patrick's, but it inspires cold shivers along my spine. I used to like it. I used to tremble. Now I feel annoyed and pissed and so many things that I can't name because I'm getting fuzzier and fuzzier. His hands are still gripping my hips, and he's trying to pull me back into him.

I fight it. I plant my feet and glare up at him. He's so much taller than me. I forgot how intimidating it is. "Get your hands off of me, Dean."

"Not till I get my welcome-kiss," he quips smarmily and jerks me against him. "Don't tell me you didn't miss me just as much as I missed you."

"Oh, that's rich," I scoff. My hands are on his chest, pushing at him. It's useless. He's still so much stronger than me. He can still overpower me if he wants to. I look over his shoulder and see Megan Fox 2.0 shooting daggers at me, like it's my fault Dean's a sleaze. His fingers encircle my wrist when he sees the look in my eyes.

"You never change, do you Kat? I can still read you so easily. You're not going to throw a temper-tantrum. I don't particularly like being hit by you."

"Screw you, Dean," I spit half-heartedly, blinking past the blurriness in my eyes. I step away, try to weasel out of his grip, but he pulls me back. I'm about to get physical when a hand grips my shoulder.

"There you are," someone says from behind me. An arm slithers around my waist and smoothly detaches me from Dean. I look up to see myself trapped in Patrick's arms. A great trade-off, I think sourly.

I miss a few things. My ears are ringing. My head's heavy. My legs wobble unsteadily. I think they're talking to each other. I look back and forth and try to make out their voices from the rest of the noise. Dean's lips move and Patrick's arm tightens around me. Their in a dangerous stare-off and I can see the consideration in Dean's eyes. He's debating whether or not I'm worth getting into it with Patrick or not. I realize it the second he decides to wait for a better opportunity to torture me. Dean stalks off and drags Megan 2.0 with him. She's smirking victoriously, like she's beaten me or something.

"Yeah, whatever," I mumble.

"What a strange night for you," Patrick murmurs to me, his lips brushing lightly against the shell of my ear. Chills erupt all over me. I turn to glare at him.

"I can take care of myself!"

"I'm sure you can."

"I don't need you to 'rescue me'."

"I'm sure you don't," he humors me, laughter tugging at his lips. My eyes go down. My glare fades away as I stare at his lips. I bite mine. I push him away from me and spin around to storm off.

I move into the dining room just as Aly & AJ's _Bullseye_ starts up. I know this one by heart. Thank you, Bianca. Before I know what I'm doing I'm stepping up onto a chair and spinning onto the tabletop.

I start to dance. It's easy. My body moves with a mind of its own.

"_Everybody's trying to get to me_." I spin, my hands run through my hair, tossing it out of my face. It sways with as much enthusiasm as my body. I hear whooping and yelling. People are excited. A smile splits my lips. "_Every guy is out for the kill_." My hips bounce and swing, my body sways. I bend down, snap up, spin around. "_I'm the type of girl worth pursuing_." It's a blast. The music hits my ears in lively sound waves and pumps through my veins. My breath is sharp. My laughter's light. "_But I won't be caught standing still, I won't._" My shoulders shake; I shimmy down into a crouch and hear whistles as I slide back up. "_You're blowin' all of your attention on me. Take your best shot, I bet you'll miss_," I smart.

"Kat!" I hear my sister shout over the noise.

I'm too alive to pay attention. "_You got me interested enough to stand closer_." I shrug fluidly out of my jacket and spin around as I toss it into the crowd. "_Maybe_ _try a little, kiss_."

"Kat!"

"Woo! Go _baby_!"

"Hot!"

"Shut up, Man!"

"Kat!"

"_You hit the bull's eye, baby. Now I'm into you crazy! Don't know how you got me started. I'm not an easy target. You hit the bull's eye. You hit my heart_." My hips jut out suggestively towards a group of guys going wild. I smirk. My hair falls over one shoulder and into my face. I dip down, bend over, and flip it out. As I come up, my shirt comes off. It flies into the crowd to be gobbled up. I'm left in my crimson-lace bra and dark jeans. I laugh.

"Kat!" Bianca's going out of her mind, gasping and covering her mouth with her hand and staring up at me with wide eyes as she's shoved around and elbowed. She tries to catch my top, but it's lost to the sea of hungry teenagers.

"_You hit—_oh!" My legs are swept out from under me and I'm tossed over someone's shoulder. They push their way through the crowd and Bianca follows at their side in a hurry. I look up through a blanket of chocolate hair, forlornly watching the crowd die down and the song finish without me. Damn.

'_I'm surprised the way you affect me  
Like an arrow penetrating my heart  
Naturally you seem to just get me  
So obviously you're pretty smart_

_I like the way you're all dressed up, messed up  
I like the way you don't care  
I wasn't certain that you'd ring my bell but  
then you whispered in my ear_

_You hit the bull's eye, baby  
you hit my heart'_

"Damn it, Verona, put me down!" I yell. He ignores me and continues stomping across the yard and down to the curb with me flung over his shoulder. Bianca follows in silence, looking rather mousy. Her arms are folded over herself and her eyes are on her feet. I glare at her anyways. I try to kick him, but fail miserably. "You'll regret this," I warn him. My voice slurs and I frown at myself. I can hear my voice in my head. It's perfectly clear. So why am I slurring when I talk out loud? Whatever. "Verona!"

"Keep your panties on," he grumbles stoically. He jostles me and my feet thump against the ground. I almost topple over, until his arms snake around me.

I shove at him, to no avail. "Who the hell do you think you are?" I demand angrily.

He cocks a brow at me and his eyes connect with mine. "Who do you think I am?"

I open my mouth but am disrupted when I'm flung backwards and shoved into the backseat of my car. I try to get up, planning on going back inside, but I'm suddenly too tired to get up. I flop onto my back and my arms lay limp above my head on the seat. Bianca slides into the passenger seat and Patrick climbs into the driver's side. He's on his knees and bending over the seat, towering over me. I frown up at him, my brow creasing. His hands are on me and I'm blushing and suddenly all too aware of my shirtless predicament. His hand shoves into my jean's pocket and rummages from one to the other. He's tickling me. I crunch up and try not to laugh while I try and fail to bat his hands away from me. He finally pulls back with my car keys in his hand.

I huff out a heavy breath and I notice my eyes are really heavy. But as soon as I close them his hands are on me again. My lids fly open and I open my mouth to shout at him, because he's dragging me up off the seat and messing with something that's making me uncomfortable. "Hey!" His hand brushes against my breasts as he fights with me to get his over-shirt up my flailing arms. I wiggle away as he tries to button it up. He pays no mind to me at all.

Once the shirt's on he lets me go and I readily flop back onto the seat, limp. My baby revs to life and Finger Eleven's _Paralyzer_ shouts back at us from the radio. It hurts my ears. I cover them with my hands until his eyes jump to me in the rearview mirror and the radio is silenced.

"God," Bianca sighs. There's that familiar whining note to her voice. "I can't believe you would do that Kat. In the morning you'll _so_ regret this. My social life is _ruined_," she cries dramatically.

I snort.

The car jolts jerkily away from the curb and pulls out onto the street. "What the hell has gotten into her?"

"Dean Moss," Bianca spits out with venom.

"Shut up, Bianca," I groan through the fog.

"You shut up!" She whips around in her seat and shoots daggers at me. "I can't believe you let him get to you like that. I thought you—"

"Bianca, if you don't shut your trap this second I will—"

"No, Kat! This isn't fair. How—"

"You don't—"

"If you would just—"

"It's none of your business!"

"My—"

"Both of you _shut up_!" Patrick bellows.

The car goes silent.

Bianca turns back around in her seat. She starts grumbling to herself, but I can't understand a word. And I don't care, as long as she keeps her trap shut about Dean.

Darkness envelops me and I'm not aware of anything but soft voices faraway until arms wrap around me and lift me out of the car. Sandalwood, I think, inhaling deeply and letting out a contented purr. My eyes are heavy and it's not worth the effort to try to open them. I'm jostled around for a second before everything stills. I'm floating upstairs and being placed on a soft bed.

"Mm," I mutter, curling up on my side and nuzzling into my pillows. A warm hand trails along my face and I turn; my lips brush against a palm. "Thanks…"

"Anytime, Stratford," a familiar smoky voice says to me. I move again, sinking into the dip in the center of the bed. Fingertips trail along my jaw as the hand moves away. "Anytime…"

And then everything is gone.


	5. I See the Real You

"**I See the Real You"**

When I walk into Live Bait, I pass through a cloud of smoke that sears my lungs and sends me into a coughing fit. My hair is falling over the curve of my neck and my top is sagging low and riding high, strategically revealing. It's got a faded portrait of The White Stripes logo on it. The skirt's hem rubs against my lower thighs. It's not my usual style, but I felt like it. The ragged over-shirt that I have tied around my waist is the reason for me being in the bar tonight.

Pushing through the crowd is much easier than last time. It's not a live-band night. Compared to the first time I was in here, it's practically dead. I find my target after barely a few seconds of scanning. He's in the backroom, with the pool tables and the jukebox. I weave between the heightened café tables and almost get knocked over by a frazzled waitress on my way to him. He's bending over the table preparing to break when I reach him. My hand glides over the wooden border of the table as I approach. Suddenly I'm jittery with nerves I didn't prepare for. I was feeling fine, confident and competent. Now all of a sudden I'm having trouble getting one foot in front of the other.

He looks up at me, and doesn't seem all that surprised to see me here. I offer a grin and tip my head. "You lost Stratford?" he cocks a brow. Then a smirk tugs up his mouth. "Or did the other night change your ways for good?" He slides back up, forgetting his shot, to give me his undivided attention. "Just warn me first," he holds his hands up laughingly, "before you jump up on a table and start stripping."

I'm assailed with foggy images slide-showing in slow-motion. My face reddens. A groan escapes from deep in my throat. I throw my hands over my face. "Oh no, don't do that." I force my hands down and shoot a death-ray at him. "Last night is going into the unmentionables vault, got it?"

"_Oh_, I don't know if I can agree to that." A mock-pained look flickers over his amused expression. He is loving this.

"I knew coming here was a bad idea," I mumble sourly, turning to retreat.

He hurries to step into my path. "Hang on, now, take it easy."

"I'm sure you have no inkling as to just how horrible this is for me, to have these memories, albeit fuzzy at best, but still—"

Patrick sobers. "Come on, Kat, it wasn't that bad."

"Easy for you to say," I snarl. "I'm sure you enjoyed the hell out of my little… _show_."

"You could say that," he smothers a chuckle.

My eyes narrow and my arms cross. I'm standing with attitude and my glare is halfhearted. "I'm serious, Verona. This is not a subject I'm willing to put up with from you."

"When has the phrase 'put up with' ever had anything to do with our relationship?"

"I resent that. You really think you'd be in half as healthy a shape as you are if I didn't have heaps of self-control?" It isn't until after I say this that my brain registers the word 'relationship' and my heart stutters with inane hope. I roll my eyes at myself.

Patrick slants towards me with a cocky grin. "Oh come now, Stratford. I'm starting to think you're all talk. You put up a good front, but when it comes down to it you're not half as badass as you think you are."

"Remind that to your toe."

"That, as I recall," he holds up a finger, "was an accident."

"Sure it was," I smile slyly. The day I stabbed his foot with the sharp end of a rod while we were bickering a few weeks ago is fresh in my mind. It really was an accident. But there's no need to have him believing that.

My eyes slide to the side where a guy is staring at us curiously. It takes a second to recognize him as Mick, Patrick's friend. He's leaning on his pool stick around the table and watching Patrick and I with abstract pleasure. A girl bounces up beside him and taps her acrylic nails along the glass of the jukebox while popping her gum obnoxiously. She flips and pokes till the speakers blast out with _Rock what you've got_ by Superchick. I love this song. She spins on her heels and bobs her head up and down while snaking an arm through Mick's. I nearly choke when I remember where I've seen her before.

Look, I nearly say aloud, it's slutty Megan 2.0 from the party. "Who's that?" I ask Patrick, my brow furrowed as I nod over his shoulder to Megan.

He takes a glance in her direction disinterestedly. "Evelyn."

"My girl," Mick adds enthusiastically, flinging an arm over his 'girl's' shoulders and squeezing affectionately. Evelyn rolls her eyes, but there's a smile on her pouty, overly glossed lips.

"Do I know you?" she asks archly.

I contemplate getting into it, spewing out nasty barbs meant to wound, but I just shake my head dismissively and focus on Patrick. My nails are biting into my palms. A moment passes as we just stare at each other. It's eerily comfortable. I take the opportunity to unknot the over-shirt. I pull it from my waist and press it to his chest. "Thanks for the loaner."

His hand brushes along the inside of mine as he takes it from me. "No problem," he murmurs darkly, leaning into me. "Though I have to say—"

"Don't—" my hand jumps to press against his mouth, quieting the coming inappropriate innuendo— "even think about it."

His fingers encircle my wrist, warmth lancing out from there, and he drags my fingers from his lips. My breath grows ragged. "Alright," he sighs with a smile. "I'll have mercy on you… for now."

"Thank you." Sardonic is my middle name.

We skip a few beats and awkwardness arises. Patrick's gaze turns to the table suggestively. "So, do you play?"

"No." I take a reluctant step back. "I better get going."

"What's wrong?" he wonders slyly, an arm slinks around me and herds me to the table. His lips brush against my hair. "Not able to stand the thought of losing?"

"To you, Verona?" I spin in his arms and arch my back over the table, my hands grip the edge. "I don't think my already bruised ego can take it." Out of the corner of my eye I see Mick and Megan—sorry, I mean Evelyn—slink away.

"I didn't see you at school today. How was it?" His anticipation for my answer makes me break out into an inexplicable smile.

"When I woke up this morning I found it too grueling a task to get out of bed. I called in sick," I confide.

"Oh good, I was worried I'd missed the big moment."

"What are you talking about?" I ask, bemused.

"You know, the moment when you walk through the doors and the school body's initial reaction. I'd be heartsick if I knew I'd missed it."

"You're a jerk," I snap, shove at his chest, and weasel out from his trap. "And here I was almost hooked again. Thanks for snapping me out of it."

I begin to stomp away when I hear his aggravated sigh and feel his hand wrap around my arm, spinning me back to him. "Now hang on a minute, Thrill-kill."

"You don't get it do you? Why is it that you can't understand that there's nothing charming about you enjoying my very public humiliation."

"I wasn't trying to be charming. Besides, I can't help it that I find you entertaining. Why else would I devote so much attention to you?"

"Ugh," I let out a cry of frustration, a guttural groan of sorts, and smack his chest again. Just when I think I've lost it to him again he gives me a much-needed kick to the head (or ego).

"You're speechless," he breathes out in shock, clasping a hand over his heart. "I'm touched." The act drops. "Why do you always have to ruin the moment? Not once have we ever come across each other without any sort of argument ensuing. I know you've got a bad case of constant PMS, but you'd think I could prevent getting your panties in a bunch for at least one night."

I tug my arm free of him and glare. "Don't think for one second that you have any affect whatsoever on my panties." I spin and try futilely to escape. He heads me off, blocking the doorway into the front of the bar. His arms lean against each side as he looks down at me. "Move."

"Not so fast, Stratford, let's work this out."

"There's nothing to work out. I just come to return your shirt. Now that that's taken care of, I can get back to pretending you don't exist."

"When have you ever been successful at pretending I don't exist?" He seems doubtful. I bristle. He notices and loses a bit of his gusto. "Come on," resignation pours out of him. "Let's just rewind." He herds me back to the pool table with an arm slung over my shoulders. I'm tucked into his side and I have this insane urge to— "Play one game and I'll do what I can for your humiliation tomorrow morning."

"Oh, you're going to protect me?"

"I didn't say that."

"Whatever; I'm going." I start to turn, his hand whips me back.

"You chased away my opponent. You'll finish the game."

"I don't know how," I lie.

He looks unimpressed. "I'll teach you. It's easy."

"That's beside the point."

"No it's not." He takes my hand, unfurls my fist, and wraps it around a cue. "You can break." The balls are still congregated in a triangle at the center of the table. The cue ball is already in position. He leads me to the right spot and positions me, his hands molesting my hips as he 'teaches me' how to play. "Lower this elbow," he murmurs into my ear. My body's molded into his. His heat is warming me and sending tingles shooting through me. "Make a fist." I do as told. "Now loosen it," his hand slides over mine, prodding and situating. He guides my other arm to rest the cue in the curve between my thumb and forefinger. His hips press into my ass as he makes me pull the cue back in a preemptive strike. I should probably have told him the truth about 23 inappropriate touches ago, but I'm selfishly enjoying it. And when I turn my head to glance at him over my shoulder, his smirk says he knows I know how to play.

But just for affect I fumble and send the cue ball skipping like rocks over water and bouncing off the table. We break out into laughter, and his chest vibrates against my back with the low rumble of his chuckles. We go to straighten at the same time. The pool stick slides along the side of the table when I let go.

"_She-she-she can get it!"_ the jukebox cries with exuberant pep.

Patrick rounds the table and retrieves the cue ball. He tosses it to me and I snag it easily. Chalking the cue, I break sharply, all seriousness now. Two solids fall into a corner pocket. I sink two more before missing, just barely, on a combo bank shot.

Patrick lets out a slow whistle of impression, leaning suavely on his cue and watching me with intention. My eyes roll up to him and I smirk before straightening and stepping back graciously. He chalks up, poises, and runs the stripes without further ado. He concentrates in a disinterested way that has me biting my lip through a smile as I watch. The 13 teeters on the edge of a corner pocket and falls in. He sinks the 9, 15, and 12 before a bad setup forces him to try a futile three-rail shot.

Mick and Evelyn emerge from backstage, each balancing two drinks a piece as they sidle up to us. Mick slips a stiff whiskey over the edge of the table and Patrick takes it up absently. Mick's left with a Heineken and I'm distracted from my layup when Evelyn nudges her elbow into my side and tries to offer me something that resembles a Kahlua Mudslide. I'm pretty sure her coke isn't virginal and I know I don't want any of that, so I take the Kahlua silently and set it aside. No way am I consuming any sort of alcohol tonight, not after what happened last time. But I look up to see Patrick eyeing me and I feel the tug of defiance pushing me towards it. I refuse and turn to concentrate on the table. But after missing an easy shot I turn and gulp down a few swallows of the thickly sweet liqueur. It tastes nice, I have to say. But there's nowhere near the percentage of alcohol in it to get me anything more than slightly buzzed. Which is the only reason I drink it, I tell myself.

By the time it's my turn again the Irish Cream has coated my synapses. Everything is sharp and clear. The balls explode like fireworks and blossom into unique patterns. I sink the 6 and 2 with easy. Mick is enraptured and Evelyn is jealous as Patrick and I stalk the table, brushing past each other and twirling around corners as our rhythm plays out fluidly. The one is smack in front of the corner pocket across from me, and I send the cue ball into the 8 which drops the 1. I send the 4 down a side pocket with a lucky carom.

I find Patrick's gaze and we share a moment of knowledge, before I swagger back with a self-satisfied smirk and pronounce, "Eight in corner pocket." I indicate with my cue and in it goes. A sigh escapes around the table.

"Aw, that was beautiful," Mick breathes, earning a petty jab from Evelyn. She turns and offers me a bright, sickeningly fake smile. She opens her mouth and I brace for a barb when Mick slips an arm around her hips and drags her off with a haphazard salute to Patrick.

Once they're gone I turn, plant my hands on the top of the cue, and smile over the table at him. "Happy?"

"Ecstatic," he drawls dryly, but there's a smile playing at his lips that says he is. He advances on me like a sleek tiger stalking its prey.

I'm standing with my butt pressed into the edge of the table. There's barely an inch of space between us and my chin is lifted so my eyes can meet his. I know I should be escaping. I should be resisting. But I don't want to. This is nice. This feels _right_. This is fun. Being with him, whether we're fighting or staring into each other's eyes is fun. Even when I can't stand him I want him around. It's driving me crazy.

"I don't exactly remember much from last night," I say to him, my voice whispering without my permission, "but from the impressions I do have, I feel like I should say thank you."

Silence reigns for a few more moments. "Well?" he cocks a brow.

I roll my eyes. "Thank you, Patrick, for whatever you did."

"You're welcome." His smile is smug and self-satisfied. I want to ask what I'm thanking him for. But I'm too afraid of what the answer will be. I don't think I want to know. Yet I do. So I'm just going to drop it. He looks up at something over my head then his eyes find mine again. He looks thoughtful, I think with a small smile playing at my lips. "You wanna get out of here?"

It triggers a memory. A noisy and cluttered scene flashes through my mind. I see Patrick. I hear him ask me that. I remember walking away. I have a feeling I should have taken him up on it then, and saved myself a lot of hassle. "Yeah…"

Nothing more is said as he takes my hand in his and drags me out of the bar…

"I'm freezing," I complain while climbing off his bike and shaking my hair loose from the twist I had it pinned in inside his helmet.

"You should've worn something warmer," he murmurs absently, shoving the keys into his back pocket and waltzing down the street. If I was a dog I would bare my teeth at him right about now. Instead I simply shoot daggers at his back. He isn't wearing his usual leather jacket, so I can't steal it from him. He _is _wearing a very warm-looking navy sweater though. But I don't think he'd let me steal that.

I repress a shiver and rub my hands up and down my goose-bump ridden arms as I jog to catch up with him. I don't recognize where we are. But the street is fairly dark and utterly dead. The non-descript brick buildings around us are all darkened. Worry creeps up my spine for a second before I brush it off.

"Where are we going?" I ask, following him obediently as he turns down an alleyway.

Instead of answering, he glances over his shoulder and hooks his thumbs in his belt loops. "You're a musician, right?"

"Right…" I say slowly, frowning suspiciously.

"Then just somewhere I thought you'd appreciate."

Why do I have a feeling that this doesn't bode well? "Patrick," I call with unease, hurrying to his side as he leaps up and grabs a frayed rope dangling down from the fire-escape on the side of the building.

He uses the rope to drag the ladder down to our reach, and turns to me expectantly. "Ladies first," he grins.

I send him a strange look before letting him vault me up the rest of the way to the ladder. My hands wrap around the cold iron and my feet find purchase on a lower rung. I climb up to the second floor landing and wait for him to join me. "What exactly are you getting me into?"

He pulls the ladder back up before turning to me and leaning in with a wink. "Nothing you can't handle, Stratford, I promise." With that, he strides up the shaky stairs as if he owns them. And I reluctantly follow.

When we reach the third and final level he jimmies open a loose window and climbs through. "Patrick!" I hiss. What do I do?

He ducks his head out the window and grabs my hand, yanking me forward till I'm halfway in already, then wraps an arm around my waist and hauls me the rest of the way inside.

"What is this place?" I ask, taking a look around the dark room as I dust myself off, trying to recover from the affect of his touch. Damn him. And damn my hormones.

"Avon: Padua High's rival," he informs me in a bored tone.

My eyes adjust to the shadows and I can make out what seems to be a classroom, a very unusual classroom, but a classroom nonetheless. Before I can ask anything else—like why the hell we're sneaking into a school—he tugs on my hand and guides me out of the room and into the corridor. We traverse the hallways in silence before he comes to a stop outside a door in the very far corner. He drops to his knees and pulls something out of his back pocket.

"What are you—" I bend down to get a closer look and see that he's picking the lock. "Why am I not surprised you carry around a lock-pick kit?" I ask dryly.

"Because you're not a stupid girl," he replies, smirking at me from over his shoulder. I open my mouth to retort just as the door swings smoothly open. Patrick lets out a satisfied sigh and rubs his hands together. "There, smooth as silk."

"So who taught you how to break 'n' enter?" I ask, brushing past him and gliding into the room. My hand goes for the light switch when he stops me, swats it away.

"My Dad," he mumbles from behind me. I feel him press into me and I go still. "Are you gonna tell me about it?"

"Tell you about what?" I do an about face and can't help the befuddled look that I feel flickering over my features.

"'Dean Moss'," he does a fairly decent impression of Bianca's scathe.

I take a pointed step back, detaching us. "I don't want to talk about it," I tell him stiffly, giving him my back. My body, which was so painstakingly relaxed a second ago, has tensed to the point I might shatter with just the sound of his name.

"Fine," Patrick shrugs indifferently. He strolls past me and deeper into the room. I use the chance to take a look around. "Come here," he barks gruffly. "I want to see what you can do." The deep inflection to his voice is more pronounced all of a sudden, like he's upset. But he doesn't look it so I just assume the tone means something's bothering his broody calm.

"Excuse me?" I reach his side and not a second later I find myself being manhandled into a position on a piano bench in the corner. I hadn't even noticed the piano. With the light from the window at my back I can make out the various instruments strewn around the room and the occasional stiff-back chair here and there. The walls are lined with shelves all overflowing with scores; whatever spots on the walls that aren't taken up by shelves are plastered with entertainment posters from the various eras. "Phew," I whistle, impressed. "This is quite a music hall."

He mumbles his agreement. "I used to go here for awhile."

"Why?"

"No particular reason," he shrugs. Then as an afterthought, "I lived on this end of town with my mom for awhile."

I want to ask. I'm overflowing with curiosity. My excitement is palpable. Is Patrick Verona really opening up to me? But I don't know where to start, so I decide to just be honest. "I have so many questions." My voice barely breaks the silence it's so soft.

He sits beside me on the bench and I finally notice that my fingers have been gliding iridescently over the keys. I'm not sure if I remember how to play. I don't want to try. I'm sure I'll sound horrible. But he's smiling and watching me and I think maybe he'll— "Questions?" he cocks a brow.

"Well, you're such an open book," I quip.

Patrick laughs at me, shakes his head, and turns to look out the window over the piano top. "You're curious about me?"

"Yes."

"You want stories?"

"I want truth."

"The truth's not very interesting."

"What's interesting got to do with it?"

He turns to study me for a long moment before sighing. "Nothing, I guess."

"You're not going to share." It's not a question. I can see it in his eyes. Anything I'd get from him tonight would most likely be fictitious. The rumor mill at Padua is overflowing with ridiculously insane and wild stories about the mysterious Patrick Verona's past.

"Tell you what," he says, "I'll share something about me after you do."

"Deal."

"Well," he cocks a brow and stares. "Go on then."

Um… "What do you want to know?"

"Who's Dean Moss and why does he have the power to freak you out so bad?"

"No. That's off limits."

"Kat."

"I said I don't want to talk about it."

"Then tell me something else." A dangerous smile spread over his lips like syrup. I knew I wouldn't like this. "Are you a virgin?"

"What?" I blanch. I'm sure my face is pasty. My eyes go wide. "Why would you ask that?"

Patrick laughs and moves his shoulders. "I'm just curious. You see, you don't come off as the virginal type. But something tells me that there aren't many guys that would survive trying to get you into bed."

"That's none of your business." I fold my arms and turn my head.

"Okay, then tell me if the two questions have any correlation."

"Damn you."

"Hey," he holds up his heads, "you started it."

"Yes," I sigh in resignation." They do… sort of."

"So you aren't a virgin and Dean Moss is an ex." He nods to himself, as if he'd guessed it.

"I didn't say that!" I argue.

"You didn't have to."

"Don't think you've got me figured out, Verona. Whatever you're thinking—you're way off base."

His smile lights a sickening fire inside me. I feel… strange. He leans into me until our lips are mere centimeters apart. His eyes are liquid heat. "How can you be so sure?"

"Just a wild guess, but I'm pretty sure what you're mind is working around right now."

"I don't think you do," he shakes his head gravely, but his smile is taunting. "Who taught you how to play pool like that?"

"Dean Moss," I mimic Bianca breathlessly and refuse to look at him as I do it. "Alright, it's your turn. Spill," I breathe shakily, arcing back from him.

"What do you want to know?"

I tap a finger to my lips in consideration. "How 'bout a concise overview of your recent history?"

"Recent as in…?"

"Past few years."

"Easy. After my dad died I went to live with my mom, which is when I went here." He gestures to the music hall and the school in its entirety. "That didn't last long though. I filed for emancipation last year and moved back to Padua. I crashed at friends' pads for awhile before I found a place of my own, an apartment on the east side, not far from campus." My eyes search his face as he speaks. He's so detached when he talks about himself, so cool and stoic. Like nothing matters. I can't figure out whether it's an act or really all there is to it.

"Why didn't you last long with your mom?" I ask softly. I think I'm still expecting him to close up and retreat. I don't know where I got that expectation from, but it's what I'm afraid of. But he doesn't. He never would, I think.

Patrick draws back slowly, turns to rest his fingers on the keys in front of us, and cocks his head to the side to eye me wryly. "How long would you last with a meth-head?"

It doesn't shock me. I think that's what he's looking for: shock and pity. I know he'd despise me for it. I quirk up a corner of my mouth and tuck my hair behind my ear. "Probably much less time than you did."

He studies me for awhile longer before apparently finding whatever it was he was searching for, and nodding to himself, as if approving a decision he's made. "You sure you don't want to tell me about this Dean guy?" Obviously he's decided to guilt-trip me. If he thinks telling me about his sad story is gonna get me to open up to him of all people about Dean than he's got another thing coming.

"I'm sure," I chirp.

Turning to face him, I watch. He really is beautiful, I think to myself. Surprisingly enough, no self-reprimand follows the stray observation. Instead, self-doubt fills me. I've never had a problem with self-esteem. I've always been a fairly confident person, even when it comes to vanity. But I don't fool myself. I'm pretty. But I'm plain. Plain and Pretty. Pretty plain. Plainly pretty. I'm just… not up to the standards of the knockouts that flock after him. And he's such a blatant womanizer. How can I possibly let myself fall for him? But it's too late. Because I already have. And ever time I pysch myself up enough to distance us, I see something deeper in him that pulls me in.

Damn him. Damn my hormones.

But I start to wonder if it really is just hormones. It doesn't feel like that's all. It feels like… it feels like I'm feeling things I shouldn't be feeling. Lust I can handle. But…

"Katharina," he says softly, pulling me from my thoughts. I snap back to see him staring. His thumb smoothes over the crease in my brow, trails down my cheekbone to brush along my lips, before settling in the dip in my chin. That's the first time he's said my real name. And it does strange things to me. "Where'd you go?"

"Nowhere," I mutter in avoidance. When I try to pull away he grips my chin, keeps our eyes locked.

He's frowning now. "I'm sorry. It's obviously a big thing with you. I won't push anymore about him, alright?" I blink. And realize that he's worried. That's the emotion swirling in his eyes: worry.

"I like this," I whisper. I'm slanting closer and I don't remember consciously deciding to.

"What?" He's confused.

"You're concern. I like it, looks good on you." I smile.

He matches it.

I press my lips to his and intake a sharp hiss of breath at the static electricity that jolts us. I pull back.

Another moment sweeps us up. I almost get lost. But then it fades, as they always do, and I turn away blushing under the intensity in his eyes.

He breaks the silence thoughtfully. "About the other night… at the lake."

"Forget it," I wave him off in a hurry. I really don't want to talk about this. Talk about embarrassing. It'll just upset me.

But he won't let it go. "Look," he sighs, then runs a hand through his dark curls. They fall back into his eyes a second later. "I didn't mean to imply that you're—"

"A huge slut?"

"Eh," he mumbles incoherently, his face going pink.

"Awright," I fold my arms and turn to face him. I cock a brow and put him on the spot. "Then what did you mean?"

Silence reigns again. I blow out a breath, figuring he won't answer, and then try to turn away. His hand is suddenly on my thigh.

"I'm just not the kind of guy you commit to."

That's all there is.

I tap a few fingertips experimentally along the keys. I was right. It sounds horrible. But there's an acoustic guitar a few feet away from us, so I slide from the bench and go to retrieve it.

He wants music right?


	6. Girls are Delicate

**A/N: **_Wow! I can't believe how many screwups this thing had in it. Why didn't you tell me? Oh well, I don't blame you. Anyway, this doesn't have that much changed in it, so you don't need to bother rereading it. _

(Girls are Delicate - previously Virgin: State of mind)

_I just wanted to thank you personally, truly deeply, for all the wonderful feedback I've been getting from this. Being interactive with the reader will influences and affects the story for the better, whether the reviews are negative or positive, they're always helpful to me, whether helping me get pumped up for writing the next chapter or pointing me in the write direction for certain little things. _

_May I say, you are all awesome! Give yourselves a vehement pat on the back. And don't be too timid to tell me what you think is wrong or lacking or just what you hope to see. _

_I will do my damnedest to get the next chapter up sometime late tonight. I'm working on it right now, but I just had to edit this chapter here first, because it makes me cringe to see all the slipups I slide past last night. I'll just say, I was damned exhausted and cranking it out like a mad woman, so I really expected it to be riddled with crappy crap. And I think that last passage at the end was something philsohical or metaphorical that made perfect sense to me last night and I was so convinced was poetic and genuis. But as I looked back on it this afternoon, (while I was sane), I realized that I had no idea what I was thinking. Anyway, so thank you, incredibly thank you. _

_I'll say one last time: YOU ARE AWESOME.  
_

* * *

"**Girls are Delicate"**

The sun sits heavily on my closed eyelids, intruding on my peace. My ears perk at the sound of sparrows singing. I'm moving in a steady up and down rhythm that's so soft if I was fully aware I wouldn't have noticed it. Then something disturbs the sparrow's songs and I make out the muffled sound of jabber. A door slams somewhere far off. Heels clink against linoleum and voices usher the tempo closer. I'm able to crack open an eye and I see the music hall, brightly light in all it's splendor. I see the leather loveseat I'm scrunched up and sprawled out on. And I see the body I'm sprawled on top of. He's stretched out below me with one arm flung over his eyes, keeping him protected from the light.

The light. The sunshine.

"Oh fuck!" I screech, flinging up and wincing at all the cricks and kinks that echo sharp aches through me when I move. Half my body is tingling with deadness and the rest of me feels like I've been throttled (that unique throttled feeling that you get when you've spent eight straight hours bundled and twisted up in the exact same position. But the most startling of everything that jolts me into awareness is the sunshine beaming harshly through the wide windows and the sound of life rolling on at a distance.

It can't be!

"Patrick," I snap, slapping my hands to his chest and violently shaking him awake.

He grunts in response and rolls his head to the side. I yank his arm away from his eyes and bite his hand. "Ow!" He springs up, colliding with me, because for some reason I'm still perched over his lap. His eyes open, blink, then focus on me with a frown. "What?"

"We fell asleep!"

"Really? I never would've guessed."

My hand whaps upside his head before I can stop it, not that I would have. "I stayed out all night, and now I'm going to be late for school. Oh God," I groan. "My dad's gonna kill me."

"Chill out," his hands rub up my arms, "it'll be okay."

I spin on him and glare threateningly. "_Okay_ is a Neverland away from me right now. I'll be tied to a chair and locked in the basement for the next two years thanks to you!"

"Me? What did I do?"

"This—" I wave a hand between and around us— "is your fault!" I snatch his arm and hold his wrist in front of my face. And I almost faint with panic. "Oh-No."

He pulls his hand back and checks out his watch. Then he looks up to meet my dread-filled eyes. "We've got enough time to make it."

"No we don't. You still have to drive me back to the bar to get my car and then I have to go home and change, and how am I supposed to get past my father without getting murdered? I'm dead. Oh God, please let this be a nightmare."

"You're one of those selfish-worshippers, aren't you? Only remember you're religious when you need something."

"Oh, shut up."

He laughs and it rumbles through me. He takes my hand in his and pulls us up from the sofa. Bending down, he snatches the shoes I'd discarded last night and hands them to me as we scurry from the room. Teachers are already filing into the school and we have to be sneaky to avoid running into anyone. But we make it back out the way we came and to his motorcycle within a few minutes.

I'm so wrapped in my own meltdown of fear and dread that the next thing I'm aware of is pulling into the driveway. Dad's car is gone, Thank God. I run inside and up the stairs with my eyes practically closed. I don't breathe until I hear my bedroom door slam closed behind me. After dressing and readying for school, I grab my bag and descend the stairs to find Bianca hunched over the kitchen table, munching on a bowl of cereal.

"Oh. My. God."

I freeze in my tracks and cringe like I've just been caught red-handed by Dad while trying to sneak a boy into my room.

I hear her let out a huge squeal and open my eyes to face the music. "You did not do what I know you did! Where were you all night! You were with Patrick Verona, weren't you? Weren't you! Oh my God, you didn't… (_Do it_) did you? Oh my God! Kat!"

"Bianca!" I yell, leaping across the table to slam a hand over her mouth. My eyes are wide and sweat's breaking out over my brow. "Could you be a little louder?" I'm a little paranoid. "What if Dad hears you?" My voice drops, "And no, I didn't _do_ anything. We fell asleep."

"Oh God, only you could stay out all night _sleeping_." She rolls her eyes at me. "Dad's at work. And oh," she throws her hands on her hips and smiles proudly at me, "You _so_ owe me for covering for you."

"What?" Hope flares up inside me.

"Yep," she nods smartly. "I told Dad you were sleeping over at Mandela's, cramming for a big test today."

"And he bought that?" I ask dubiously.

"Of course he did… After he called and had Mandela confirm it."

"You're a life-saver," I sigh.

And that's that. All I have to worry about now is… _school_.

I sit in my car staring out the windshield and trapping the wheel in a death-grip. The school lot is draining in numbers as everyone idly floods inside. There are only a few still meandering around here and there.

"Are you coming?" Bianca questions while quirking her sculpted little eyebrow at me. Her face says, "You're boring me."

"I'm fine, oh sweet and caring little sister." The act drops when I tell her, "I just have to mentally prepare myself.

"Well," Bianca says hesitantly. I don't want to sound selfish here, but I'm not gonna wait up. I'd rather not walk in with you today. My reputation is damaged enough by just sharing my genes with you. I don't think I can survive actually being seen with you, at least for right now."

My heart is filled with love. I turn to sneer at her. "Good, then you won't mind _walking_ home."

"Oh come on, Kat, don't be this way. I'm just looking out for myself. It's not like you need me. And I did cover for you with Dad, didn't I? Doesn't that earn me some selfish points?"

"Well, I can't say I'm proud," I sigh, "but I suppose you're right. Just get out of my sight right now."

Bianca obeys with merely an awkward glance back at me. I watch her disappear around the corner before I let myself contemplate driving away right now. Ultimately though, I shake my head at myself. I end up just turning on the radio and rocking out for a while, trying to pysch myself up.

'_Cover me with kisses, baby.  
Cover me with love.  
Roll me in designer sheets.  
I'll never get enough.  
Emotions come, I don't know why.  
Cover up love's alibi.  
Call me on the line.  
Call me, call me any anytime.'_

Embarrassingly enough, I'm belting out the chorus to Blondie's _Call me_ and air-drumming the steering wheel when someone taps on the window. My head bang is halted as I startle, spinning to see Patrick crouched at my window, watching me. He's muffling his laughter. I glare and discreetly hit the 'next song' button on the CD player. Heart's _Barracuda_ rolls through the back speakers. I turn the volume down and roll the window open.

"Must you always lurk?"

"It's my thing," he shrugs. His arms come to rest over the windowsill. "So, how'd your dad take it?"

"He didn't take anything, Thank God. As much as it pains me to admit, Bianca saved my ass." I fall back against the seat and let my fingers play nervously with the leather strings wound around the wheel.

"So what are you doing?" he wonders, his eyes raking over me and the inside of the car. "Jamming to Blondie?" He looks skeptical of my musical taste.

"I'm steeling myself, if you must know," I bite out.

"Right, well, ya almost done with that then?"

"Almost—" I smile with him— "but not quite."

"You wait any longer and you'll miss first period."

"That's the plan…" But it's really not. I can't afford another tardy slip. I need to get in there. But— "Aw, screw it," I mumble, climbing out of the car and grabbing my bag.

"That's my girl."

I only get two steps before I'm stopped by his words. I turn to regard him with shock. He's looking very awkward. I don't think he meant to say that. I really don't think so. But he did. "Let's just…" –Pretend that didn't just happen.

"Yeah…" He nods slowly, shaking himself out of it and starting across the lot.

I blink out of my stupor and follow after him.

'_That's my girl.' _

MY girl...

"_That's my girl."_

That's so weird.

I'm not _his girl_. I'm _not_.

I'm torn from my thoughts when a hand grips my arm and holds me back from my advancing steps. I blink and look up to see him holding me in place. I peer up at him through the morning sunshine, and open my mouth—

But I don't get to say anything because he tips my face up and captures my lips in a breathy kiss. His arms snake around me and suddenly I'm pressing into him, flush, up and down. My back arches against him, my hands glide up, my fingers wind in his hair.

I jump back and gasp for air, stumbling out of his arms. When my eyes finally open: I blink against the harsh light and find that he's already gone. I stare, dumbfounded, at nothing before my eyes connect with a girl's from across the lot. She's staring, and it's obvious that she's been staring this whole time. It takes a second to recognize her. Nina: the girl Susie told me about. No wonder she's trying to kill me with her eyes. She's jealous. Wow, is this weird.

I drag my gaze away from her awkwardly and get my feet moving forward.

"Woo!"

I step through the double door front entrance and find myself in the main hallway with every eye on me. Catcalls and whistles echo through the eerily still corridor.

"Hey, Sexy Mama!"

"Yo, Stratford, what do we owe ya for the show?"

"You can dance on my table any day!"

"Watch out," Chelsea laughs, "she might start tearing her clothes off."

"Oh please, baby, please."

The girls are easier to ignore, with their behind my back, hushed "slut" and "skank". I can take that. I can deal with it. NO problem. But the guys and their catcalls and lewd remarks are making me blush, and not in a good way. I don't know how to handle this kind of attention. I try to scare them all with my deadliest scowl, but it doesn't work.

"Watch out, man, she might bite."

I shove my way through the gathered teenagers and make sure to kick a few shins and stomp on a few toes. My elbow is bruised by the time I reach my locker. I've used it too much in the past few minutes. And still the uproar has yet to cool. I set my jaw and keep my eyes fixated on nothing.

After retrieving the needed books from my locker, I make it down the hall and to class just as the minute bell rings. But I can't get in. Because there are three guys blocking the doorway.

"Get out of my way," I warn impatiently.

"Aha, just as soon as you—" Their gusto fades simultaneously as someone sidles up to me and tosses a protective arm over my shoulders. I look up to find myself pressed into Patrick's side. He's staring at the boys in my way. I don't understand how he manages to look bored and dangerous all at once. Everything falls silent and the guys simply stare for a long moment. Then Patrick cocks a brow at them and they scramble to back their way into the classroom, looking more terrified than apologetic.

"Thanks," I sigh, slipping out of his arms and stalking into the room just as the late bell rings.

"Simmer down," Mr. Morgan calls irritably before his eyes fall on me. "Take your seat, Stratford."

"My pleasure," I mutter, already headed that way.

Mr. Morgan doesn't say anything to Patrick as he follows quietly and takes his seat behind me. My spine stiffens as the guys turn to leer at me from across the room. Mr. Morgan notices, yet does nothing but smirk laughingly before turning his focus on the blackboard. Jerk. That guy's had it out for me since my first day at Padua. I don't know what I did to get on his bad side, besides unintentionally undermining one of his literary speeches when I dared to disagree with his outlook on Hawthorne's symbolism. Still, he didn't have to take it so personally. I even kinda like the guy. He's one of the coolest teachers I have. And he hates me.

I can't help but groan when he opens a discussion on themes of Hedonism in postmodern American literature. I'd rather discuss the philosophy of _Blood Meridian_ or _A Clockwork Orange _than listen to the remarks _The Scarlet Letter_ would inspire.

He has to be doing this on purpose, just to spite me. He must've heard what happened over the weekend and wants to rub my face in it, make it as painful as possible. Or maybe I'm being conceited? Either way, I hunch down in my seat and resort to sketching quietly, withdrawing myself from the class discussion.

Lucy Lopez, one of the girls I work with as yearbook editor, turns in her seat, which is unluckily right in front of mine, and leans her elbow on my desk, placing her chin in her hand. She bats her eyes at me, sickeningly sweet. "What's new, Mata Hari?"

The Blondie sitting beside us turns at that and smirks evilly at me. "Yeah, Jessa Belle, how's it going? I hear you've got a fascinating fetish."

I can't help the stifled laugh that escapes. Mr. Morgan shoots me a nasty look but I can't stop myself. "Okay, first of all: _Mata Hari_?" I say, straightening in my seat and slanting towards her. I know laughter sparkles in my eyes. "Really? The best you can come up with is a Harem Girl? You're going to need better material if you expect to insult me. But I applaud your attempt at being creative." I turn to face the girl next to me, and out of the corner of my eye I spot Patrick covering his mouth with a hand, his chest rumbling. "And a biblical reference too, incorrect at that, but still… good try." I give her a thumb up. The girls turn back to the front of the class, miffed.

"Actually," Patrick whispers, leaning into my shoulder, "Mata Hari was from Amsterdam; French courtesan, not Arabian stripper."

I crane my neck to smirk at him. "And how do you know so much about Mata Hari?"

"How do you not?" He cocks an amused brow at me and we laugh under our breaths.

When I turn back in my seat I find Mr. Morgan staring right at me. He doesn't look amused. "You done?"

"Yes." I smile politely and sit stalk straight in my seat, holding my pen in one hand and laying the other in my lap. I feel a laugh bubble up my throat when he turns around. When it actually bursts out I clasp a hand over my mouth and look shocked and embarrassed.

Mr. Morgan spins on me and throws his arm towards the door. "That's it, go to the office."

"What! Why?" I narrow my eyes at him.

"You're pissing me off, now just go."

"Mr. Morgan—" I try defiantly.

He raises his brow. I shut up. I grab my bag and I stalk out, after of course, I shoot him a nasty look. And just for the fun of it I slam the door. Jerk.

I procrastinate over visiting the office. I take the long way around the school. I walk in super slow mode. And as a final ditch effort I slip into the Ladies Room down the hall. I pee, I spend a few minutes drawing an Egyptian eye on the stall wall, and I come out to wash my hands and face and redo my loose ponytail. I stare for a long minute at my own reflection. Damn it, I don't need another trip to the office. But as much as I wrack my brain I can't find a way to avoid it.

Suddenly the door swings open and bashes against the wall. I'm leaning on the sink when in walks Nina. She's looking very pissed. And I let out a heavy sigh. "This is not my day."

She stalks the few feet towards me and crosses herself. "Listen up, Stratford, and listen carefully because I'm only going to say this once. Keep your skanky paws _off_ my guy."

"Fine by me," I sigh, launching away from the sink and turning fully to face her. "Who's your guy?"

She lets out a little growl of frustration. "You know damn well! Stay away from Patrick Verona."

Of course… "Now why would I do that?"

"Because," she squeals angrily. There's a whining tinge to her voice that reminds me of Bianca. Here's psycho-Bianca. "You're pouching on my territory. And I am so not going to put up with it."

"What's your deal with him?" I question curiously. I really am curious. "I have yet to see you within two feet of him. So really, how can he be _yours_?" I use air quotes. "Have you ever even talked to him directly?"

"Yes!" She stomps her foot like a two-year-old. I try not to laugh. "I mean it, you slut, stay away from him."

"I'd love to help you out. Really, I would. But I don't think 'me staying away from him' is gonna happen any time soon." When had I come to that decision? I'm a little taken aback by myself. But her possessiveness is really pissing me off. She has no right. She's just some deluded stalker. Kat Stratford does not tiptoe around psychos. I am not going to placate her.

She seems to sense this at the same time I decide it. Her eyes narrow, zeroing in on me, and her lips thin. Her cheeks are pink with rage. She's actually kind of… unsettling. I can't tell if she's really dangerous or just a tough-talker. I see for myself when I get knocked sideways by a fist colliding with my jaw. Skin rips and fire explodes inside my cheek. Bitch!

Before I can help myself I've flung across the room and tackled her. A lot of yelling and grunting and pained hissing emanates from us as we wrestle ourselves, quite ungracefully, out into the corridor. My back slams against a set of lockers, sending my bones rattling and my teeth chattering. I swing and hook her chin, slam my knee into her hip, and shove her away from me with enough force to send her sprawling on her ass a few feet away.

I advance on her but before I can reach her a pair of strong arms wraps around my waist in a vice and hauls me off my feet. I kick backwards, land, and spin and punch. It isn't until my fist screams out in pain after smashing into some guy's nose that I snap back to myself and realize what I've done. I pull back with wide eyes. My brow edges towards my hairline.

"Oh shit, I'm so—"

Then I'm knocked face first on the ground and I feel knees digging into my upper back. "Bitch!" she shrieks.

I let out a grunt and jab my elbow up behind me. I feel it connect and her weight on me gives, allowing me to roll out from under her. I'm straddling Nina on the linoleum floor, and she's thrashing crazily underneath me, trying to buck me off of her. But I've got a steady balance and she's got to be at least ten pounds lighter than me. She's all skin and bones and I'm curves and muscle.

"Psycho," I bite out pointedly.

My hands catch her fist before it can reach me and I pin her arms over her head. I'm panting like crazy and about to throw another punch when I'm suddenly hauled off of her and pressed against the lockers behind me. I kick out, but the guy dodges me this time. I'm effectively trapped. And Nina is being held back by a guy that looks like he can swallow her whole.

"Miss Stratford! Miss Munoz!" an admonishing voice reaches me through the haze of violence and I cease struggling. The pandemonium fades.

I gasp for breath and swallow thickly. Pain is more prominent than the realization that I'm in so much trouble. I blink, and suddenly realize that the hall is packed with students. When did the bell ring? I don't think it did. Classroom doors are left ajar and teachers are trying to wrangle their students back inside. I spot Bianca looking fairly horrified, that Cameron kid hovering nervously beside her.

"Whoops." I shrug at her, lost for explanation.

Principle Holland's puckered face comes into my line of vision. Her arms cross. She's stiff and scary. I think it's the Asian in her. It allows her eyes to do terrifying things when they want to. "My office. Now."

I swallow. I'm released by my captor. And I start following her clicking heels down the hall. Nina walks beside me. I want to... The look on her face says she's thinking the same thing. My fists clench against my thighs. I bite the inside of my cheek. There's a very distracting pain in several focused points of my body.

This is very bad.

I zone out.

I zone back in again when I hear the word: Suspension.

"Suspended!" I yell over Holland's desk. "Please, you can't suspend me. I was just defending myself. She attacked me! I swear. I didn't mean for this to happen. It just got out of hand. Please, Principle Holland, I can't have a suspension on my record."

"Why not?" Holland asks archly. "You've already got three on your transcripts from your last school. What's one more?"

"Please," I sigh. My vehemence exhales with the air from my lungs. There's no getting out of this. "I have an agreement. If I keep my record somewhat clean at Padua then my past screw-ups will be expunged from my record and won't affect my college applications."

"You should have considered that, Miss Stratford, before you resorted to violence. I'm sorry, but even if I wanted to help, I couldn't. Padua has a zero-tolerance policy."

I turn in my seat to glare out into the hall at Nina. "I can't believe this."

"It's only three days, Miss Stratford. It's not the end of the world. You'll make up easily."

"That's not the point!" I snap. "A fourth school-suspension will exclude me from the majority of the colleges I'm looking into."

Holland softens and looks pityingly at me. It irritates me. "I'm sorry," she sighs. "But there's nothing I can do. Gather your stuff and be on your way."

I obey, alternating drastically from seething in silence to wallowing in self-pity.

How could this happen to me? How could I let this happen?

I'm walking out of the building when the bell rings and the corridors flood with bustling teenagers. Bianca is at my side in an instant, hurling questions at me faster than I can catch them. "Kat, are you okay? What happened? Where are you going? Are you in a lot of trouble? Who was that girl? Why did you hit her? What are you gonna do now?"

"Looks like you'll be walking home after all," I sigh forlornly. "I got suspended."

"What! Oh no, what do you think Dad will do?"

"Dad won't know," I turn on her with vitality. "I'm not telling him, and you aren't either. I'll intercept the automatic notification and he will stay in the dark. Am I clear?"

"Yes." She nods meekly.

"Dad finding out about this is the last thing I need," I mutter, mostly to myself, as I walk away. I'm still technically grounded for sneaking out the other night, not that that stopped me from sneaking out again last night to meet Patrick at Live Bait. And look how that turned out…

"Yeah, well, don't worry about me," she calls from behind me. "I'll hitch a ride home from a friend. I'll see you later!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," I sigh miserably.

_Can this day get any worse?_

Apparently it can.

I come home to find Dean waiting on the porch swing for me. He sees me walking up the drive and pointedly shoots his watch a glance. "A little early, aren't you?"

"Bite me," I snarl. I stomp up the steps, ignoring him, and scramble to unlock the door. My hands are shaking so bad I can't get the key in, and I let out an angry sob and kick the door. I'm almost to tears I'm so torn up with tenseness.

He clasps my hands in his and slips the keys from my meek grip. As he works at the lock he asks, "Want to talk about it?" He sounds gentle and caring and that pushes me over the edge.

I shove past him and into the house. My bag drops from my shoulders and I slither limply into the poufy armchair by the windows. Tears leak down my cheeks, placidly. I snivel, swipe begrudgingly at my face, and turn to stare out at the bright day. "What are you doing here, Dean?"

"I didn't have anything going on today—" he shrugs— "figured I'd hang around here and wait for you to get out of school. Turns out I really didn't have long to wait." He smiles like we're sharing a private joke.

"No," I snap angrily. "I mean, what are you doing _here_? You're supposed to be in Tacoma, remember, going to college?"

"I dropped out." He moves across the living room and seats himself comfortably at the window seat in front of me. "As it turns out, college really isn't my thing."

"What was wrong?" I soften despite myself. I'm too upset to muster seething hatred for him at the moment. And I'm curious.

"Nothing really, I just got bored."

"And your dad doesn't mind?" I highly doubt that.

"He's in Baja with the new wife at the moment," he smirks bitterly. "He has yet to be filled in."

"He married Melissa?"

"No, actually this one's new. Courtney."

That's beside the point. "So you didn't like college. Why come here? Why didn't you just go back to Ohio?"

"I did. And found out that you up and moved without even letting me know."

"Why the hell would I update you on my life?" I frown over at him, my mouth thinning with irritation.

He studies my face for a moment before chuckling at his own private joke and kicking his feet back. "That's right. You're still pissed at me."

"No. I'm not pissed. Pissed indicates that I'll get over it. I _hate_ you. I meant what I told you. I never wanted to see you again. Yet here you are, in my living room. _Christ_, I moved halfway across the country to avoid this exact thing."

"_Please_, I was away when you moved. So don't try to pawn it off on me."

"Get out, Dean. Go home. And leave me alone."

"Look," he sighs, runs a hand through his spiked hair, and levels me with a familiar stare. "I know what I did was hurtful, but jeez, I never thought you'd hold a grudge for this long. Kate—"

"God—" I throw my hands up, feel like tearing my hair out— "you just don't get it! When are you going to get over your selective memory and get it through your thick skull that I have no interest in ever seeing you again? I don't want you in my life, Dean." I take a deep breathe and level him with dead, consistent eyes. I accentuate every word when I tell him, "_I just want to forget_."

We stare for a long time, so long that I lose track. Then he comes to his feet and stalks out the door without another word. When the front door slams shut behind him I let out a relieved sigh and sag back against my chair.

Later that night, after surviving through an incredibly awkward and tense afternoon with Bianca and an interrogation at the dinner table from Dad, I find myself lying on my back in bed, staring up at the ceiling with _The Bell Jar_ flipped open over my chest.

I tried to read, but couldn't get through more than three paragraphs before I realized that I was so distracted I couldn't even remember what I'd just read. So I just gave up. Besides, Sylvia Plath's all-too-real plunge into mental illness by means of extreme depression and multiple suicide attempts may not be the best choice for me at the moment. The IPod jack is charging out with a melancholy _Virgin state of mind_. My head is swirling. I'm so tired. I just want to sink into the dark sanctuary sleep is promising and never wake up.

My eyes are drifting drug-like when a soft tap at the window jolts me back to reality. I push up slowly in bed and unwrap the icepack from my knuckles. I spot Patrick leaning on my windowsill. I left the window open… for the breeze, or maybe for him. I had been slightly hopeful. I swallow and lick my lips, then wince.

"Having a rough night, Stratford?" he asks softly, his voice deep, dark, and raspy. I let my eyes flutter closed at the sound of it.

"I'm really tired," I say. My voice is weak. My body's too heavy to move. I lower myself back down and curl up on my side to face him. My eyes are half-lidded, but I can still make him out.

"I'll go then," he tells me. "I just wanted to check in. I was curious…"

"Me too. I want to know why that girl attacked me over kissing you. She's psychotic," I mumble. Then my gaze sharpens on him. "You slept with her, didn't you? And now she's obsessed or something, and taking it out on me."

Patrick gives a throaty laugh and slides the rest of the way inside with grace. He crouches beside the bed and trails a delicate fingertip along the gash in my lip.

"It still stings," I mumble against his touch.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be," I try to shrug. My shoulders don't make it all the way through the move. "I've had worse."

His brow furrows. "What does that mean?"

"Nothing," I sigh, closing my eyes and nuzzling my face into the soft pillow. "Are you going to tell me what the story is with Nina?"

"Nina?"

"Psycho-stalker who jumped me in the bathrooms today and got me suspended."

"Oh." He draws back uneasily and comes to his feet. His hands are shoved in his pockets. "I don't know what to say."

"So I'm right, she's just a jilted little girl with unstable emotions."

"I don't know Kat," he sighs with frustration and rakes a hand through his dark curls as he looks down at me. "I took her on one date, after she'd been bugging me for awhile about it. But that was months ago. I haven't heard from her since." A beat skips in silence before he adds, "I just don't get it."

I scoff with derision. "You don't understand how fragile a girl can be about this sort of thing. Especially if she hasn't fully matured… emotionally. Just because she's got a hot body and is coming onto you, doesn't necessarily mean she's ready and can handle it." I turn to look at him sharply. "She did come onto you, didn't she? I mean, you didn't pressure her—"

"No, Kat. I didn't take advantage of her." He seems miffed.

I'm not apologetic. My cheek is swollen and bruised. My lip still stings. The skin is scraped off my knuckles and it aches. And I had to tell Dad I suffered an embarrassing fall down the stairs at school. I'm not going to be sorry for questioning his morality. I let my head fall back.

"I really am exhausted." It comes out muffled. "We can talk later." My head is throbbing. "Could you turn that off?" I ask blindly, flicking my hand lamely towards the music's origin. I hear his footsteps pad softly over the carpet and then the room plunges into a welcoming silence. "Close the window on your way out." I start to roll over, when something strikes me. "Wait… Could you stay?" I ask the darkness. I've opened my eyes to find that he's turned out the light too.

I wait to hear something, but there's nothing but empty silence. I sigh and let my head fall. Just as I think he's already gone, the bed dips and I feel him press into me. Covers pull up over me and an arm wraps over my waist. I hear him breathe in deep. His face is lost in the tangled hair at the curve of my neck. My hand rests on his bare forearm, warm tingles unravel inside me. I stretch my legs and bring my body taut against him. This feels nice.

The world dims and everything is so settled, so peaceful, so _nice_ that I sink softly into unawareness without struggle.

It's so perfect… I know it can't last. These things are delicate.


	7. Women are Difficult

**A/N: **_I hope you enjoy. One question though: As a consensus, should I bump up the rating, or just exclude all scenes resembling explicitness? It's your choice. I can make it work either way. _

_A side night: big heaping thanks of gratefulness to whoever created the 10 Things I Hate About You fanvid - A War in Your Bedroom, (which can be found easily on YouTube). There are surprisingly a lot of awesome Kat/Patrick fanvids on there, but this one tops them all in my bias opinion. I don't know who created it, but if you're by haps reading this, you're awesome. If you haven't seen it, go watch it now, I order you. I watch it just before I start writing a new chapter, right after I read your wonderful reviews. It gets me in the obsessively focused mood I have to be in to come up with anything decent to write. Thanks again for the awesome feedback and make sure to keep it coming, or else my creative juices may stop flowing. Yes, I am not above blackmail. And forewarning, don't flip out on me over the end. Bear with me here. Anyway, please do enjoy._

_-Sarah  
_

* * *

"**Women are Difficult"**

I want my life to be simple again.

I want to remember my goals and have them be easily stuck to.

I want to get back to the mindset I had when I first moved here.

It was a new life. A perfect chance at the fresh start I needed. An excellent opportunity to put into affect the 'new me' I was dead set on becoming. And it worked rather well for the first few days. I was the girl I'd determined to be. And then I met Patrick. And everything got complicated and messy.

Now look at me.

I'm lying in bed, alone, after waking up expecting to find someone sleeping beside me. But no, of course, he was gone. Why had I assumed he'd stick around? Because I'm slowly reverting back to that old Kat… the girl known as Kate. The girl who… never mind. The point is… look at me.

My bedroom is cluttered, messy, an eclectic mishmash, and overly bright with the early morning sun shining directly into the room through the open drapes. The window is closed, I note oddly. My hair is a rat's nest and my pillow smells like smoked sandalwood. I press my face into it and breathe deep. What's the harm? No one will ever know.

"Kit-Kat?" my dad calls through the door. I realize I didn't lock it just as he barges in uninvited under guise of fatherly affection. "You're going to be late for school if you don't get up soon." He perches on the edge of my bed, seeming loving, but I notice the way he bounces experimentally for a second, checking to make sure there's no one under it. His eyes dart around the room suspiciously. He's trying to be unusually inconspicuous. It doesn't suit him.

I yawn and stretch out like a cat. The covers slither off me. "I know; I'm waking."

He brushes my hair back from my forehead and squints at my face. "How are those battle-wounds coming?"

"I'm taking it like a man."

"Have you been icing?"

"Yes, Dad," I sigh impatiently, rolling my eyes, before climbing up from bed and moving to my closet. "Is Bianca up?"

"Up and ready to go. She's downstairs eating breakfast, where you should be," he chides softly. While my back's turned he drops hurriedly to his knees and peeks under my bed. I see this through the full-length mirror he doesn't know is hung on my closet door. I can't help but smile at my hapless father. I turn back and he jumps to his feet, trying to look innocent. "Right then, get a hustle on it. I want you to have a good meal before I send you off to the bloodthirsty wilderness that is modern high school."

He's making his way down the hall when I call after him, "I told you, I wasn't pushed, I tripped and fell!" He insists I, his most graceful daughter, would never have fumbled down a staircase. He's right. But his assumption that I was shoved cruelly down a flight of stairs isn't even close to lukewarm. I don't like lying to him. I thought I was done with that when we moved and I turned over a new leaf. But if he knew I got into a fight, he'd know I'm suspended. And I can't have that.

He usually isn't so paranoid about searching my room each morning. He must've heard Patrick sneaking out. Thank God he didn't actually catch him. I'd die. I wouldn't only be peeing in cups for weekly drug tests; I'd be peeing on sticks too.

I sit soundly on the corner of my bed and stare into the mirror darkly. What is going on with me? I need some control. I need to figure this out. I'm spiraling farther and farther. I study my face with a grimace. My split lip is less noticeable than it was last night. Just a small cut in the corner of my lower lip. The swelling has gone down, there and my cheek. But the bruise has already turned into a sickly collage of stormy sky, tree green and sunny yellow. It spans from the edge of my cheekbone, an inch lower than my eye, and travels down the side of my face towards my jaw.

Damn that girl's got a left hook.

I'm not sure how well cover-up will work, but I try anyway, despite the pain the brush causes. When I'm done—and half the powdered concealer is gone—I only look _half_ bad. It isn't as 'in your face' as it was, so I sigh with acceptance and let my fingers mindlessly twist a few braids into my tousled hair. I don't bother brushing it. It's wavy and thick and will cover the worst of my face as long as I don't brush the volume out of it. When I'm done I don an olive green fatigue hat and pull a half-jacket over my white tank and casual jeans. I shove the sleeves up and tug on my boots. And I'm ready to go pretend I'm going to school.

I grab my bag, stuffing some essentials for the day into it, and meander down the stairs.

Bianca is in a skimpy sundress with fuchsia flowers splattering brightly over the crisp whiteness. I grimace at my sister's cheeriness. She'd come off as slutty if she wasn't so damn sweet and clueless. I can't imagine that I used to be like here. It seems like a completely different life. But I guess I was always meant to turn out this way. The independent defiance is in my DNA. It just needed to overcome the environmental programming I'd succumbed to between my sister and my mother.

Nature versus nurture and all that jazz…

Her honey-blonde hair is done up in a frilly catacomb and her lips are so glossy and pink that I have to avert my eyes. Her wrist is adorned delicately by a silver bracelet; where as both of mine are being suffocated by a clashing mixture of bangles and ropes. Her slender little fingers have exactly two rings on them, one a standard pearl and the other a pastel gemstone over gold. My fingers are cluttered with mishmash. Her face is soft and sunny and mine is dark and rich and adorned with a scowl. She's also wearing open-toed sandals to showcase her pedicure-ridden toes. And I'm in combat boots. See the difference?

It's sad really.

"Save some for me?" I pipe up, sliding into a seat at the table beside her as she shovels a bite of waffle into her mouth and chomps.

She smiles through her chewing, "Of course," and nods towards a plate sitting on the kitchen counter behind me. "Hey, you are going to drive me to school today, aren't you?" she whispers, leaning over the table towards me secretively.

"Yeah," I nod, fixing myself a plate. "Just as long as—"

"Girls," Dad appears from the other room and takes his place at the head of the table. He rests his elbows on the table and steadies Bianca and me with a serious Father-Stare. "There's something I need to talk to the two of you about."

"What's up, Daddy?" Bianca singsongs across the table. She then gulps down half her OJ and makes a show of taking her vitamins.

"I'm scheduled to appear at the next CRC conference this weekend. I really can't get out of it, so I'm going to have to trust that you girls will be okay on your own for a few days."

"Of course we will, Daddy," Bianca squeals. I can already see the giddy wheels in her head spinning.

"When are you leaving?" I ask him.

"Tomorrow," Dad sighs like it's the end of the world and he's sadly accepted it with a heavy heart. "The conference is in Seattle on ACOG Coding Workshops. Very boring stuff, but necessary, so I'll be gone till Sunday night. Will you girls be alright, or should I try to find a—"

"Do not say the word _Sitter_!" Bianca cuts him off, appalled.

"Yes, I suppose you're both a little old for a babysitter now." He sighs again, and this time the apocalyptic tinge is serious. "Well, I'll leave some money for food and the emergency cash-stash is in the safe in my study."

"We know, Dad," Bianca and I complain with matching eye-rolls.

"It's not like this is the first time. We'll be fine," Bianca perks up. "But we will be late for school if we don't get going. So come one, Kat."

She's taking my hand and dragging me away from my unfinished waffle before I can protest. We're on our way out the door when Dad follows us into the foyer. "Yeah, I'm right behind you. I have a shift in five minutes."

"Didn't you work late last night?" I wonder.

He frowns at me. "No."

Oops. "Oh, well, have a nice day then," I say lamely, scurrying after Bianca in avoidance. We climb in and I peel out before he can catch us. I drop Bianca off at school, practically making her jump out of the coasting car, and drive away as quickly as possible. Even in the safety of my own car I can feel eyes on me as I drive through the lot, unnerving me. I want to go home and sleep in late this morning, but I doubt Dad will be gone by now. So instead I stop at an internet café in town and surf the web while dosing myself with mocha-flavored caffeine.

I'm bored out of my mind within a half-hour.

How am I supposed to make it through three whole days of this?

I'm researching the capabilities of the new Nikon Rebel when someone comes up to my table. "Ahem. Do you mind?"

I blink out of my reverie and come back to the coffeehouse to find a stranger hovering over me, eyeing the empty chair opposite me with desire. He's tan and scruffy and blonde and looks to be in his early-thirties. He's juggling a coffee cup and a banana-nut muffin. I glance around to find that all the other tables are taken up. When I came in it was nearly ghostly. Obviously we've hit rush-hour.

"Um… sure, go ahead." I feel awkward. I hope he doesn't expect me to socialize. I turn my eyes back to the screen and try to ignore the uncomfortable feeling riding through me. I'm stiff and tense and he's staring. I look up again and cock a brow. "What?"

He hurriedly averts his eyes and coughs anxiously. "Uh, nothing, sorry, you just… remind me of someone I used to know."

"That's fascinating. But if you could refrain from ogling—I'm trying to concentrate." Yeah, I sound extra-bitchy, even to my own ears. He looks crestfallen and nervous and I have to sigh and soften myself to company. "I'm sorry. That was incredibly bitchy."

"Aha, that's fine. Don't mind me."

He resorts to staring at the back of my laptop's screen. I know there's a bumper sticker stuck on there that says, "I climbed Mount Olympus," with a Greek symbol beside it. I feel self-conscious. I'm sure he feels worse.

With a sigh I snap the laptop shut and lean my elbows on the table, focusing on him. "I'm Kat."

He loosens noticeably and offers up a radiant smile. "Neil Paccar."

"Interesting name," I murmur. I feel my lips twitch. I'm surprised to find that I'm smiling. "So who do I remind you so much of? Ex-girlfriend? Sister? Long-lost cousin?"

Neil laughs. It rumbles up from his chest and has him practically beaming warmly at me. "No. My late wife, actually. You look nearly exactly like her high school photos."

"That's strange."

"I thought so. You nearly gave me a heart attack when I turned and saw you sitting here. I was sure I was hallucinating."

"Wow," I breathe. "What was her name?"

"Lillian Jackson-Paccar."

I wrack my brain for a minute, but the name isn't familiar in the slightest. "I'm sorry," I shake my head, "I've never heard of her. Must just be one of those freakish occurrences."

"Yeah," he sighs wonderingly, "must be."

I fall into easy conversation with Neil over the next hour. Until he interrupts, saying he's late for work, and hurries out of the café, but not before telling me how wonderful it was meeting me. I sit there thinking about it for a while longer. It's such a strange thing. Something like this has never happened to me before. I doubt I'll ever see him again, but I really enjoyed my morning because of him. Neil Paccar. I'll have to make a note of him in my journal, so I don't forget.

"Interesting…" I murmur thoughtfully, making my way back to the house. I'm sure Dad is gone by now. I drive by once to make sure his car is gone before I park and get back inside. "Now what?"

I sit down in the study and take out my Nikon D30. Scanning the recent roll onto my laptop, I file through and sort them all. I've been lagging behind as yearbook photo-editor. I had almost completely forgotten about it this past month. But looking through my collections, I spot a photo I've spent a lot of time staring at.

Zipping it into Photoshop, I cut out the focus of the photo—three seniors huddled together with chipper smiles baring their teeth—and zoom in on a background element. After clearing out some of the blurriness and adjusting the pixel, I'm able to paste out a perfectly focused crop of Patrick, leaning casually against the hip-high stucco wall in the quad. His arms and ankles are crossed as he slouches back lazily. His eyes are on something off to the side. He's broody and dangerous, and I can't help but smile at the sight because it just epitomizes him. Without contemplating it too much, I print out the photo and fold it up into a pouch in my pocketbook.

After finishing with the rest of the collection, I make myself a snack and cuddle up in the TV room, resorting to surfing through channels. After two minutes I realize that daytime television sucks. I shut off the TV and toss the remote away in disgust.

My next activity is working on my song. I pick up my Les Paul and work on adjusting a few off notes in the score I wrote a few weeks ago. I bore of that rather quickly.

And by the time I finally give up and decide to go out and about and find something interesting to occupy my time, it's barely noon.

Even though I could get into serious trouble if I am caught on school grounds during my suspension, I find myself sneaking into the auto-shop garage around the time I know Patrick's auto-mechanics class is ending.

When I walk in: Noah and Felix are arguing viciously over whether the transmission on the Toyota they are hovering over is slipping or not. Mr. Mitchell is occupied in the back as he frazzlingly tries to explain how to rebuild a piece of the carburetor he and a young student are congregated around. And a familiar pair of combat boots are sticking out from under a beat-up old Chevy Impala.

The khaki Chevy Impala is raised up barely a foot on jacks. I hear clunking and clacking that indicates he's actually doing something down there. I resist the urge to bang on the hood, remembering the last time—when I was trying to get his attention and hit the hood of the car while he was under it, unintentionally spraying him with motor oil. He got really pissed about that.

How was I supposed to know he was performing an oil drain?

As I look back, I can't help but smile laughingly. It was pretty funny, especially considering the fact that as he was pulling off his ruined shirt and yelling at me all I could do was try not to drool at the sight of his oil-caked chest.

A soft laugh escapes me at the memory and his leg bumps into mine.

"I know that laugh," he mutters from below me.

I crouch down to get a better look at what he's working on. "What are you doing?"

"I'm working on the differential."

"I see," I nod knowingly.

He pauses and cranes his neck to look at me. "And you have no idea what I'm talking about," he grins.

"Nope."

"Come here."

I look at him oddly for a second before I realize that he's serious and speaking literal. I turn to lie on my back and shimmy my way up under the car to lie beside his creeper on the grimy concrete. He nods at the machinery his hands are tangled up in. He's got oil smudges on his cheek and his hands are covered with black soot… so are his navy coveralls. His raven curls are mussed up and falling over his forehead. I bite my lip and stare up at the under workings of the car to prevent ogling.

"See this maze of gears here?" I nod and try to take mental notes. "This is called an epicycle train of gears. I'm realigning the mechanism."

"What does it do?"

I reach up but before I can do any damage he takes my hand in his and runs my fingers over the tangled steel cobwebs as if they're brail. "It lets two or more shafts rotate at different speeds."

I look over at him blankly.

He chuckles throatily and turns back to his work, still trapping my hand in the middle of it. "It lets the back wheels be driven at different speeds… like when you're turning."

"Fascinating," I murmur breathily. We turn to look at each other at the same time. And laugh. He lets my hand go and I pull it back from the epicycle gears. We're staring and before I realize it he's moving closer.

"Verona!" Someone bangs on the hood of the car and I jump. "No doing the nasty under the Impala. You know Mitchell will flip if he catches her in here."

Patrick chuckles under his breath and I lick my lips, my face burning as I peer out, watching the muddy boots walk away.

"Okay then…" I take a deep breath. "I better get going." I crawl out from under the Impala in a hurry, pretty awkwardly at that, and make my escape.

Patrick kicks out from under it on his creeper and watches me go. "Kat—"

I'm already halfway across the parking lot by the time I slow down. I spend a while driving around town aimlessly. My mind refuses to switch gears properly. It needs a tune up. When I finally force myself to snap out of it I pull into the car park behind _Rock-its_—music and book emporium. I've wanted to check this place out since we first arrived in town. Yet I never got around to it. Now is the perfect time.

It's a two-story brick building with very few windows and spray-painted murals along the sides of it. The glass in the door and the two windows out front are covered inch by inch with neon signs and posters and flyers and album record cases on display.

I step inside and am immediately welcomed by a rush of toasted air and the heavy scent of hazelnut, not to mention the classic rock caressing my ears from the discreet speakers hung up in every corner.

The first floor is massive and opened wide with a vaulted ceiling. There are rows and rows of waist-high stacks of music, everything from 8-track to Vinyl to CDs. On one side of the place is the bookstore area, crammed with eight-foot tall oak bookshelves all overflowing with this and that from everything you could ever imagine. On the edges of that is the over-stuffed leather reading chairs. It's hidden stacks that you could get lost in while still remaining a part of the communal feeling of the place.

The other side is an array of low-seated café tables and scuffed up wooden benches, all centered on a coffee bar. In the front corner is the booth, stuffed with racks of odds and ends of junk food, a cash register, cloth bags, and a turntable. It's manned by a redheaded girl that looks no more than 16. She's in a skirt that can't even be classified as anything more than pleated underwear, knee-high leather boots with spiked heels, and a cropped, fuzzy crimson sweater. Her hair is long, flyaway, and pulled back from her black-makeup-caked face by little skull-adorned barrettes. Her nails are ghostly white acrylics and she's popping gum as she taps her noisy fingernails along the keys of the register and shakes her hips to the music.

In one back corner is the iron-spiraled staircase that leads up to the veranda style second level. There's a chain hooked up at the bottom of the staircase, keeping non-authorized patrons on the ground floor. I can see at least five people meandering aimlessly up there. One 20-something guy is banging is head dizzyingly and fluffing a feather-duster over some racks along the wall. He's baggy and ripped and scraggly. A Goth-girl is perched on the iron railing, dangling her legs over the edge as she teeters between slouching provocatively and falling over the edge. The others are sprawled over worse-for-wear leather sofas sitting in a triangle shape in the middle of the floor. There are black lights lining the walls up there and a small television that looks like it belongs back in the 70's.

This is… awesome! So totally awesome, I can't believe I waited this long to check this place out. I love it already and I haven't even been here two minutes.

A Teenage Wasteland if I've ever seen one.

In comparison it makes Ear-Ecstasy back home in Ohio seem like Wal-Mart.

I rip myself from my open-mouthed stupor and step further into the place.

"Fresh meat," the girl at the booth says to me with a welcoming smile that teeters on condescending. She hops up onto the booth and swings her legs over to stretch her hand out to me. "I'm Kiki. Welcome to _Rock-its_. Make yourself at home. If you need assistance… well," she grins, "don't look at me." She turns and points towards the head-banging duster upstairs. "Go see Tommy. He's the manager." She turns thoughtful for a second and leans in conspiratorially. She covers her mouth with a hand and whispers, "Just keep out of Lola's way. It's one of _those_ days. And we wouldn't want a grisly slaughter on our hands."

"Who's Lola?"

"Miss Manic-Depressive up there," she points towards the Goth-girl perched on the railing. "So what are you in for?"

"Excuse me?"

"Are ya a gamer, a reader, or a banger?"

I look at her funnily for a second before I get it. Gamer: the collection of video games in one corner by her booth. Reader: the books. Banger: the music. Okay. I got the lingo down. "Little and lot of all of the above; don't worry," I smirk, "I'll find my way."

"Sure thing," she backs up with her heads held in the air. She turns away and I relax enough to let myself explore. The telephone by the register rings out shrilly. "_Rock-its_, open till 12, this is Kiki speaking." She pauses and taps her nails on the counter. I look over my shoulder when she huffs out an irate breath. She's looking at the phone like it's a moron. "12!" And then slams it back to the hook.

I head first and foremost towards the stacks. I get lost. I love it. I finally manage to skim down the armful of books I'm collecting and narrow it down to two. I take the two and flop down on one of the leather reading chairs to flip through them.

Ultimately, I discard _Don't Tempt Me_ as a lousy erotica more than the thriller it claims to be, and settle on _Soul of the Bride_: a fantasy adventure steeped in Greek mythology. I reach chapter 2 just as Styx' _Renegade_ reaches my ears. I perk and look up from my book to notice Kiki and Tommy dancing emphatically around the booth, _'rocking out'_ harder than I've ever seen anyone rock out before. I laugh and enjoy the show for a minute before returning my attention to the story.

The song dims suddenly and I hear Kiki yell, "Verona!" excitedly. My eyes widen. It can't be. But when I look up I see Kiki leaping over the booth and throwing herself at… none other than Patrick. He catches her easily, but her momentum throws him off balance. She hooks her arms around his neck and wraps her legs around his waist. I can't help the irrational jealousy and hurt that stabs into me. Why, oh, why does he have to come intrude on my newly discovered special place? He's tainted it now.

And I kind of-sort of liked Kiki…

Now that's ruined.

I can't help but masochistically watch as she kisses him. He turns out of the kiss a few seconds too slowly for my taste, and delicately detaches himself from her. When he sets her on her feet again I expect her to pout, but she just remains insanely cheery.

"What brings you in here? What's it been, like, three months?" she chides playfully, crossing her arms and jutting her hip.

I tear my attention away and bite my lip as my eyes pin themselves to the page of my book. I'm strewn over the chair the wrong way, my back pressed against one arm and my legs dangling over the other. I suddenly feel very self-conscious. I consider getting up and sneaking out unseen, but I doubt it would work, and then I'd have no pride left. So I stubbornly sit and read and wait for him to find me.

It doesn't take long.

Fingers crawl along my arm till they reach the hand I'm holding the book in. Mystery hand snatches the book out of my hold. Patrick kneels down beside my chair and smiles up at me. I glare pettily and try to snatch the book back. When he holds his arm up out of my reach I stop trying in favor of dignity and simply fold my arms and stare blatantly. He catches on quick and the smile drops.

"What now?"

"I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about. If you don't mind—I was reading that," I say stiffly and hold out my hand for the book.

He drops it easily and narrows his eyes at me. I stare blankly at the page and watch out of the corner of my eye as he studies me in consideration. "There's nothing going on," he tells me in irritation. "Katie's just an old friend."

"_Kiki_. And you seem to have a lot of those," I remark, mean and snarky, without looking up from my book.

"Yeah, well, I assumed you understood that."

"I did." I sigh and let the book fall in my lap. "That's exactly why I didn't want to get into this."

"This?" he cocks a brow. "As in you and me; yet you are in it. We both are. You can't pretend we aren't."

"I certainly can," I snap, jumping up from the chair and tossing the book back to a shelf. I hurry out of the store and ignore the calls from Kiki and the fact that I feel Patrick following closely behind me. Now look what he's done. He's chased me out of my new favorite place. And I didn't even get more than an hour of bonding time with _Rock-its_. Damn him. And damn all of his _old friends_. I stomp down the sidewalk aimlessly and seethe: at him, at me, at Katie, at Nina, at Susie, at the dozens—probably hundreds—of other girls I have reason to seethe at yet don't know about.

"Kat," he hedges in front of me, blocking my path. "Is this really something you want to get all worked up over? It's not like I could've have prevented her jumping me."

"Oh no. Of course not…" I sidestep him and stomp into the nearest food-joint. It turns out to me a McDonald's. I hate McDonald's. But I doubt their sodas are as crappy as their grease-drenched food. I stalk up to the counter and order myself a Dr. Pepper and a side of nothing. Patrick suddenly appears at my side and adds a burger and fries to the order, to which he beats me to the punch and throws a bill at the acne-ailed girl behind the counter. She smiles shyly and bats her eyes at him. A giggle escapes when he smirks at her. I roll my eyes, snatch the cup from her, and stomp over to the fountain.

By the time he catches up to me with his bag of grease I'm already rushing out the door and back onto the sunny sidewalk. He keeps up easily. The first thing he says to me is— "You're sexy when you're jealous."

I spin on him with fiery eyes. "I am not jealous," I claim, affronted by the notion.

He simply offers me a crooked smirk and his eyes darken. "It's okay, you can admit it."

Rage flames up inside me, and I'm tempted to shove him. Instead, I resist the outburst and quickly change tactics. I set my drink down on the hood of a car parked beside us. Then I brush up against him, turn us, and pin his back to the brick wall. People hurry by us on the sidewalk, but he takes up my entire focus. I press myself to him seductively and drag my hands up from the hem of his jeans, my fingers get caught on his shirt and I take it with me. My fingers dig into his lower back. I smile as I watch him swallow thickly, his Adam's apple bobbing anxiously. I suck my lip in to bite down on it as I rub my hips against him. His lips part thirstily. I love that I have this affect on him. But I can't get sidetracked.

I lean in and whisper hoarsely, "Exactly how many fresh nail tracks would I find on your back if I were to look, right now?"

I think I've got the control here, but then he takes me by surprise and slams his mouth against mine. His hand comes to the back of my head and he forces me closer. I'm dragged up onto my toes and sucking in air that's not there as he ravages me.

Damn it, can I never win?

My mind clouds over and my body takes control. A steady ache settles between my thighs, and I'm throbbing and breathy and flushed by the time he releases me from the kiss.

We gasp against each other's mouths and his lips brush against mine as he tells me fiercely— "None." Then switches gears and he's smirking down at me cheekily. "Unless their yours…"

I blink, come back to myself, swallow, and hold up my hand for him to display my bare fingernails with a raised brow. "I couldn't leave nail tracks on you if I tried." I pulled away with more than a little effort, and took in a calming breath. "You might want to keep that in mind."

I pick up my drink, right myself, and start walking back towards _Rock-its_ parking lot. He follows at my side silently. But I feel his eyes on me. He's rummaging in his bag and pulling out his burger when I finally feel in control enough to look over at him. He unwraps the burger and takes a bite, then holds it out to me. I grimace and arch back.

I'm about to make a rude quip in response when a familiar voice cuts in, "She's a vegetarian, Slick."

My heart stutters and anger lashes out again. I turn to glare antagonistically at Dean, who's stepping up onto the sidewalk in front of us. He's got a cigarette in his fingers and he raises it to his lips as I'm about to barb him.

But again, I get interrupted. "She also despises smokers," Patrick returns, "_Slick_."

"_She_ is leaving," I snap angrily, trying to stomp away from them both. But Dean steps into my path and heads me off. I take a step back when I find myself nearly pressed into him. "What is it you want?" I ask impatiently.

"I've been trying to talk to you for the past week. You keep getting away from me."

"Yeah, well, intense desire to _not_ see you will do that to me."

"Come now, Kate, you can't stay mad at me forever." I try to go around him, but he stops me. "Would it help if I admitted that I am deeply, _deeply_ regretful?"

"What a poet," I snarl dryly. "And no. Not really. What does it matter anyway? Don't tell me you've grown bored of coeds already."

Dean smirks and lifts a blonde brow at me. "Ever heard the saying: you don't know what you've got till you're missing it a lot?"

_Oh God no_, I snort. Crossing my arms, I glare. "Now you're a rhyming poet." I try to move again and again he blocks me. "Please remove yourself from my path before I'm provoked to do something you'll really regret," I say calmly.

"Kate—"

"My name is Kat," I snap at him.

"Since when?" he frowns.

"Since now, God, will you just leave me alone?" I'm fed up. I huff out an aggravated breath and shove past him, clipping him with my shoulder in the process.

"Kate—"

"How dense are you?" Patrick intervenes when Dean grabs at my arm. He puts himself between us and it brings him nose to nose with Dean. I can't decide whether to be irritated or grateful.

"Really, man, this is none of your business." Dean tries to reach me again and Patrick grabs his wrist, tosses it back, and infuriates Dean all in one quick swoop.

Dean steps up threateningly and Patrick's fists clench at his sides. They're both ready to shatter and I really don't want this to escalate into a full-out brawl. Truthfully, I can't decide who would suffer worse, Dean or Patrick. It's kind of an even bet.

I quickly dart in between them and shove Dean back roughly while hedging Patrick backwards by pressing my back into him and reversing. "Dean—"

"You know, Kate, you're a big girl. You need to get over it and grow up. You and I still have things to settle up—"

He takes another step at me and I shove him into the nearest Ford pickup. "You know what Dean: send me a postcard from Hades," I drawl. I start to turn but before I go I add in dangerously, "And if you _ever_ come near me or my home again, I _will not_ refrain from running your ass over!"

I spin and stalk away in a rush, but not before grabbing onto Patrick's leather-clad arm and dragging him with me. I don't release him from my demanding death-grip until we reach the _Rock-its_ parking lot and are away from the sidewalk and I am sure Dean hasn't followed us.

I temporarily forget Patrick exists as I hurry to my car and slam the door closed, trapping me inside. I'm breathing hard and my face is burning red with anger and something else I can't place and my throat is thick with rising cries. I feel wound up enough to shatter like glass. I beat my already bruised fist against the console, intensifying the ache, and let out a loud sound—part cry, part snarl, part scream.

The passenger door opens and Patrick hesitantly slides in beside me. He's dripping wet. I look up out the windshield and realize its raining. All the windows have already blurred and it feels so contradictory that we're enclosed in an open space (private yet utterly exposed). He doesn't say anything.

I'm afraid I'm about to shatter into a fit of sobs. I'm so angry I want to beat the crap out of the brick wall out there. I stay inside the car to keep myself from harm. My forehead hits hard against the steering wheel and when I feel tears well up in my eyes I hide my face in my aching hands. I suck in a shuddery breath and brace myself. When I feel secure in my hold on that last thread of control, I rise up and press my back to the seat and lower my hands to grip the wheel.

He still won't say anything. But he reaches up and tries to touch the curve of my neck. I flinch and slap his hand away, shrinking away from the contact. That's the last thing I need. I want so badly for him to just hold me. So yeah, it's the last thing I need.

"Kat—"

"Don't." I shake my head. "Just… don't."

He nods quietly and sinks back in the seat to watch me.

"I want…" My voice cracks and I have to take a breath to finish solidly. "I want you to stay away from him. If you see him again…I want you to walk away."

"I don't think I can agree to that."

"I mean it, Patrick. Stay away from him."

"Why?"

"Because," I exclaim shakily, losing my delicate cool. "Because I said so."

"You're not my mother," he jokes halfheartedly, and I turn to shoot him a humorless glare. "I'll try," he says in resignation. For some reason I don't think he means it.

I watch a drop of rain fall from the tip of a curl hanging over his eye and land on his cheek. I watch it slide down to pool at the corner of his mouth. Before I'm aware, I'm pressed against him, my lips nipping and begging at his, my thighs straddling his lap, my hands clenching in the leather at his shoulders. I rub myself against him fervently and moan. "Patrick," it comes out a breathy gasp against his mouth. I roll my hips against the hardness in his pants and drag a throaty groan from him.

"Kat—Kat, wait—" His hands are on me, but they're not beckoning, not enticing, they're trying to pull me away, to hold me still. "Kat. Stop." I rip myself away from him and frown through the haze of desperate desire that's settled over me. He takes me in his hands and he places me back into my seat, easily detaching my clinging body from him with the ease one gets from lots of practice.

I jam my back into the door to get as far away as possible as I frown in confusion. He doesn't say anything more, just stares out the rainy windshield. His hands are clenched at his sides and his body is coiled tensely. He won't look at me. He just… pushed me away? When I was throwing myself at him? What the hell?

It hits me suddenly and solidly, settling heavily on my chest and squeezing the air from me. My throat closes up again and my hands tremble.

_He doesn't want me._

After all of this… everything he's done… he doesn't want me.

It's just a game to him. It's fun. But where's the fun in taking something you're being easily given? Especially if you never really wanted that thing to begin with. You just wanted a challenge. Son of a bitch.

I turn and focus straightforward. My knuckles whiten as they grip the steering wheel and my jaw sets painfully. I'm trying my damnedest not to cry, and it's taking everything I have in me.

"Get out."

"Kat—" he tries halfheartedly.

"I said get out," I snap harshly, leaning over him to fling open the passenger door. I recoil as quickly as I can when the scent of musky sandalwood fills my senses and the warmth of his stomach and its clenched muscles rubs against my wet arm.

"Someday Katharina, someone will walk into your life and show you exactly why it never worked out with anyone else."

_How ironic_, I think dully.

I stare into the muddy void of wet glass and hold my breath until he leaves. A sharp hiss of air escapes me violently when the door slams closed. I don't even wait until he's out of sight before I rest my head on the wheel and start sobbing.


	8. A War in Your Bedroom

**A/N: **_HAH! Take That!_

_Ooh, I'm so proud of myself. Anyways, I hope you enjoy. Please let me know what you think. I need some major feedback right about now in order to rejuvenate me enough to find the energy to crank out another one of these monstrosities. And I don't want to spank anyone... wait, I mean spoil. I don't want to spoil you, but I do declare that the general consensus to my previous question was: "Hell Yes! Crank that Damn Rating up and Give Us Some!"_

_So be forewarned. This chappie is a little lusty. _

_And I got some respectful complaints about the lack of fluffiness here. And I agree. So I did the best I could here. Tell me if it's fluffy enough for ya! I never believed I could accomplish fluff. I'm more a dreamy silk and dramatic satin person myself. But I gave it a try. And this is MY type of fluff, so be prepared, it's not your typical stuff. And it's 4 AM and I'm pumped up on massive intakes of caffeine that I can literally feel burning out in my veins as we speak. So I'll leave you be... Enjoy._

_-Sarah  
_

_"And let the War Commence..."_

* * *

"**A War in Your Bedroom"**

I hate myself.

That's what I'm thinking as I lie here in the dark, huddled under fluffy covers, staring into the inkiness in the direction I'm sure my ceiling is, though I can't see it.

I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself.

But more than I hate myself… I hate men. All men. And specific men. I hate Dean Moss. And I especially hate Patrick Verona. But just to cover all spectrums. I hate all men. And I hate me for forgetting that I _need_ to hate men to survive.

I huff and roll over. I'm not getting to sleep tonight. It's been hours and I'm still nowhere near close. Just as I'm about to give up and go down to wallow in a bowl of brownie fudge ice cream, I hear a squeak. The window slides up. Drapes dance and twist and tangle and then there's a muffled _thump_. I don't bother leaping for my taser or baseball bat. Because I already know who it is. Though knowing exactly who is breaking and entering through my bedroom window in the middle of the night should only be _more_ incentive to get my taser. But I don't. Because I'm a sucker.

Before I can say a word the bed dips and the scent of burnt sandalwood wafts through my nostrils, coating my synapses. My eyes flutter closed against the darkness and warmth radiates from one whole side of my body when he presses into my side. He's slipped under the covers and we're skin to skin now. And before I can speak my lips are moving in an instinctual rhythm against his. His tongue glides along the ream of my lips, begging entrance. I open invitingly and wrap my arms around him.

We don't part until oxygen becomes a dire issue. He rests his forehead on mine as we catch our breaths. "I want you," he mumbles against my lips. My insides churn and my hormones do a walloping dance. My heart pitter-patters like it's on PCD. A steady, throbbing, liquid heat invades my core and my thighs squeeze tight around his waist, searching for relief. "Kat," he groans, grinding his hips into me, imprinting me into the mattress.

I squirm underneath him, writhe and moan. His hands are everywhere, caressing and squeezing and tearing clothes off and baring me to him. His lips travel down my jaw, the hollow of my throat, my chest, in open-mouthed, sloppy, breathless kisses. He finds the pulse point in my neck and sucks the skin in between his teeth, making me cry out and buck up against him.

A head splitting buzzing starts ringing in my ears. I can't breathe. I'm so hot. I'm breaking out into sweat and I can't get close enough. I need relief. I need Patrick. I need—

"_Kat! Turn off that stupid alarm!"_

"What!" I fling up in bed, eyes wide, mouth dropped, chest heaving. I'm hot and sweaty and my hand is flying towards the clock on my nightstand, which is jangling loud enough to force a migraine into my head. A heavy smack as palm hits plastic. Then all is silent… except for my ragged breathing.

"Kat?" Bianca calls from the other side of my door. I panic and search the room… but there's no one there. I'm alone. And the door opens. Bianca pokes her head inside. She's bright and cheery and she makes me want to vomit. My head is splitting. "Aren't you getting dressed yet? We'll be late. You're not going to have enough time for breakfast. Don't you—" Her voice fades as I lower myself back to the bed and heave out a slow sigh. My heartbeat calms. I cool down. But the unsatisfied throbbing between my legs is ever present. And unfortunately, Bianca's annoying jabbering is doing nothing to relieve it. "Kat?"

"Huh? Oh, right, sure." I have no idea what she's been saying. "B, what day is it?"

"Monday, duh, your suspension is officially up. It's back to school for you, missy. Oh, that reminds me. I thought you'd wanna know Dad called."

"Dad?" I'm totally clueless. "He isn't home yet?"

"Uh… No. The trip's been extended over something or other. I don't know. I didn't listen to that part. But he won't be home till Wednesday. Awesome, right? We still have time to throw a kickass party that is bound to up my social standing."

"Uh, no, we don't. Party is not happening." I lay the back of my hand over my clammy forehead. Maybe I have a fever? I should go to the doctor and get a note excusing me from school for the day… or the rest of the year.

"—and Chastity says that if Amy's ankle doesn't heal by the dance then she's going to let me—Kat, are you listening?"

"Huh?"

"Ugh," she grunts. "Never mind—are you coming down to breakfast?"

"Yeah… um… No." I squeeze my thighs together and gather a handful of comforter in my hand tightly. "Bianca, just go eat. I'll be down in a little while."

"Whatever."

"And close the door!"

I wait until the door slams shut and I hear her footsteps padding downstairs. Then I reach over, switch on my IPod, loudly, and flip over to lean my upper body over the side of the bed. I reach down and grab the box of unmentionables I keep under my bed. I slide it out. It's a compact, square, black box with zoomed imprints of a single red rose on it. I flip the lid and rummage through for a second before my hand wraps around what has slowly become one of my best friends over recent years. The hand-held, snow-white, mini-massager claims to be discreetly silent. It lies. Which is what the music's for.

I flop back in bed with an '_oomph'_ and screw my eyes shut. By the time I switch it on and slip a hand into my pajama pants I'm already panting and images of my dream are flashing behind my closed eyelids. I bite my lip to keep from getting loud and only allow little pants and moans as I writhe under the covers and arch and toss and turn. "_Ah… Oh God… Oh… Mm Patrick—_"

"Kat, can we—Oh God."

"Bianca! Get out!"

I switch the vibrator off and drop it back in the box, then shove the whole thing under the bed and scramble to hide myself under the covers. My face is burning with blood when Bianca cracks the door open a few seconds later.

"Um…" She swallows, clears her throat, "Can I… come in?"

"Yes." I fold my arms and determine to pretend that _that_ did _not_ just happen.

Apparently Bianca came to the same conclusion because as she steps into the room she says awkwardly, "K, I'm just gonna pretend I didn't hear that buzzing, and come sit here on the bed. And then I'm going to ask you if we can talk."

"What's wrong?" I ask, concern creasing my brow and chasing away my mortification. "Did something happen?"

"No. No not really… other than… well, I'm just going to say it. Dean called."

"What did you tell him?"

"Nothing. He left a message. But Kat, where did he get our number?" She seems suspicious. Is she accusing me of something?

I shrug and scoot back against the headboard. "Probably the same place he got our address. The phonebook," I say as if she's an imbecile.

Her eyes widen. "He was here!"

"He stopped by last week," I shrug. I'm trying to show her that it doesn't matter, that there's no reason to talk about Dean. But it's not working.

"Oh Kat," she shakes her head, looking worried. "You're not… I mean, you wouldn't go back to him, would you? Not after what he did. How could you even _think_ about it?"

"Easy, Geraldo, you know me better than that." I hold up a hand and roll my eyes, like she's being ridiculous. I don't let it show how much this affects me, simply talking about it, thinking about it.

The ache is completely forgotten by now.

"I never understood why you two were together in the first place. He was nothing but trouble for you."

"Bianca…" I sigh. "It's complicated."

"Uncomplicate it."

I try to shake it off, but she's staring at me in that Bianca way of hers that sneaks under my shields and weakens my resistance. With a sigh, I draw my knees up to my chest and hug myself. "There are a lot of reasons I was attracted to him, B. For one: he was attractive."

"Kat," she rolls her eyes. "Get serious."

"Okay. Serious is that he was charming and dangerous and he was damaged. And after Mom died I felt so out-of-place. Dean made me feel like I belonged. There were a lot of reasons. I can sit here and feed you plausible excuses all day long. But the fact is that I thought I needed him. I thought I needed him so much that I pulled wool over my eyes to every bad thing about him, every mean thing he ever did, ever sign that was trying to warn me early on. I ignored it all because I didn't care. By the time I did care… it was too late."

Bianca watches me with uncharacteristic quietness. Finally she speaks, "So you're not going to forgive him?"

"No."

"Good," she nods, satisfied. "Maybe if we ignore him long enough he'll go back to Ohio."

"That's what I'm banking on," I tell her softly, unfolding myself and letting her half-hug me hesitantly. She pulls away and gets up. "Don't worry so much, Bianca. I know how to take care of myself."

"I know." She stops with her hand on the doorknob and turns to look at me. There's meaning in her eyes. "Just… you didn't always. When Dean came back… I was worried that the old Kat might come back too."

"Never gonna happen," I assure her strongly.

"Better not," she murmurs, closing the door behind her.

Let's just say that the ride to school is… awkward. We're both still reeling from the touchy-feely moment. We pull in and Bianca darts off as quickly as she can. I sit for a few minutes, waiting till the last minute, stressing. I haven't seen Patrick since last Wednesday. And we hadn't exactly parted on comforting terms. I spent the weekend determining to pretend that he doesn't exist from this point on in life. I'm done playing his games. He had his chance. And he… he used me. He played me. He waited for the perfect time to humiliate me… by rejection.

I'm not even going to punish him. I'm not going to be bitchy or violent or seek payback. No. That would show him that what he did mattered. Why should I give his ego the satisfaction of knowing he'd managed to hurt me? I shouldn't. So I won't.

It will be fine.

I just have to keep telling myself.

It doesn't matter. He doesn't matter. I'm fine.

I walk down the halls clutching the strap to my bag till my knuckles pale. I feel stares burning into me. Not as many as I expected though. Thankfully, seems the thrill has died down since I've stayed out of the limelight for the past few days.

I turn the corner to the corridor my locker is in and that's when I see him. He's leaning against my locker, talking to Susie. At least they're just talking this time. I don't think I could've handled anything more right now. I would've done something I'd regret.

I turn on my heels and try to make it back around the corner I came from as quickly as possible, but he seems to spot me anyway. "Kat—" he calls after me. I hear his footsteps advancing and I can't help quickening my pace. Before I can get very far he steps in front of me. I skid to a halt to avoid touching him. He seems to sense this and keeps himself at a distance. "Kat, I need to talk to you."

I can feel his eyes on me, begging me to look up at him. I can't. I keep my gaze fixated on a point in the floor faraway. I keep my face neutral and my tone dead. "I don't have time." My statement is punctuated by the minute bell going off and the hall erupting into a hurried frenzy as everyone tries to make it to first period on time. I spin on my heels and walk away. But only get a few steps before—

"_Please_—"

My feet glue to the floor. I want them to move. But they won't. I stare at nothing, yet it feels like I can see him. He moves closer, I feel him nearer. His breath rustles a loose strand of my hair at the nape of my neck. It's up in a clip today. And it's slipping free quickly. My body wants to lean back into him. I want to run before I can humiliate myself any further.

I steel myself and turn. My eyes roll up and connect with his. I suck in a breath. His irises are liquid fire and the typical cockiness has been replaced by something else, something softer and indefinable. I fold my arms stiffly, for protection, and swallow. "What do you want?"

"I want to talk to you. Just give me a few minutes."

"I can't afford to be late again."

He doesn't say anything, just steps to the side and pulls open the door to the janitor's closet. Of course we'd be standing right here. This is our spot. Seemingly. I had never thought about it before this second though. I open my mouth, to argue, but close it before anything comes out. I step forward, pass him without looking up, and step inside the cramped little closet. I'm standing stalk stiff and still, my jaw locked, staring at a metal shelf of cleaning supplies. I listen as he steps in and shuts us in.

Without turning I tell him, "Say what you need to say so I can get to class."

"Will you look at me?"

A few seconds slip past us as I debate with myself. Slowly, reluctantly, I turn on the spot and let my eyes draw back to him. It's dark. The bulb's missing from the fixture and the only light is being skewered by the pixel-window in the door.

I hug myself tighter and stare. I'm not giving him anything. It's unhinging him. He seems to pace without moving for a few moments, breathing in and out, we do it together, without touching, inches distance us, silence exudes for miles between us.

"I should have explained myself… the other day."

_Don't do this to me. Don't do this to me. Don't this to me._

My shoulders move un-emphatically. My jaw clenches. My teeth grind. My eyes are off somewhere to the side though I feel his burning into me.

"You made yourself perfectly clear," I say through gritted teeth.

I'm terrified I might start to cry. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I did. So I squeeze my arms tighter around my midsection, as if I can physically hold myself together, keep myself from falling apart.

It's not that big of a deal, I say to myself. He made me fall for him, made me think he wanted me when in fact he just wanted a challenge. He doesn't want me. But I… But I'm fine. It's not the end of the world. Sure, it hurts. But it's nothing that I won't get over.

I tell myself. I tell myself. I tell myself.

He shakes his head, looks at me like he's trying to figure a difficult equation and I'm not helping him in the slightest. "No. I really didn't."

"I get it," I shrug flatly. My eyes find his. I want to end this. Make it quick. Get it over with. No sense in drawing it out, unless he just likes rubbing salt into my wounds. "Where's the fun in accepting what you're being given freely? Nothing to take. No challenge. No work. Why would that interest you? Now if you don't mind," I try to shove past him because my eyes are welling up. He catches my arms and holds me back. He's blocking the door. He's got my only escape route cut off.

"No, Kat. You've got it all wrong."

"Do I?"

I struggle against him. I try to wiggle free without hurting him, but when that doesn't work I kick him in the shin and stomp on his foot. I rear back and elbow him in the gut then as he grunts and doubles over I try to spin around him and make my escape. I end up being gobbled up by arms so much stronger than me and pinned against the creaky metal shelf. Sharp edges dig into my back and make the tears fall, hard and fast.

"Yes," he grunts, "you do." He's wincing and cursing under his breath at me for the pain. I sniffle and take some small satisfaction out of it. I try to hide myself from him, even though I'm trapped. I do the best I can. I burrow my face in his shoulder to hide the fact that I'm crying. But he won't even give me that. Bastard. He wraps his hand in a clump of hair at the base of my skull and forces my head back slowly. When I struggle again, and try to twist out of his grip, he grabs my face in both of his hands and uses his body to pin me. "Damn it, Kat. Just settle down and listen to me, will you?"

"Get off of me!" I heave. "You'll regret this."

"I'm already regretting ever meeting you," he snaps back angrily.

I can't help the irrational hurt that stabs through me at his words. Of all things to suffer over, _that_ is what my emotions choose? "Go to hell," I snivel pathetically.

"Probably," he mutters through his teeth, still trying to hold me still. It's getting easier by the second. I'm starting to lose my strength. That's what happens when you start tearfully sniveling like a little girl.

God, I am so pathetic. _Get a grip, Kat._ And do it now before you humiliate yourself any more. "I don't want to do this. Will you please just let me go?" My voice is muffled by the material of his shirt. I'm starting to slide down. My knees are getting too weak to keep me up.

"Not until I've said my peace."

"Then hurry up and say it!"

"Fine!"

"Well?"

"Just give me a second to think. I can never get my thoughts straight around you. You're so Goddamned difficult to handle."

"No one asked you to _handle_ me."

"That's beside the point."

"What is your point, Patrick?" I snap. My irritation grows and my tears lessen. Strength returns to my knees. I'm standing on my own now and I'm glaring up at him through swollen, blurry eyes.

"My point is that we've suffered another misunderstanding and we're going to get this straightened out."

"Fine!" I shove at his chest, pointlessly. "Explain to me why you rejected me? What's so wrong with me that you can't—?"

"I didn't reject you, Kat. And as to what's wrong with you… you need a professional for that," he narrows his eyes at me and holds me up straight. "I prevented you from doing something you'd regret. Honestly, I thought you'd be grateful once you'd calmed down. I didn't think you'd flip out like this, all though I don't know why I didn't see it coming. It's what you always do."

"Please," I scoff bitterly, swiping at the wet tracks on my face, "don't even try to tell me that you were being a gentleman. That's not what this is about, and you know it. This is just one of your little games. Admit it, you lost interest the second I became easy for you."

"You're right." He presses my back stiff against the shelf and leans in, bending his knees till we're eye level. "I wasn't being considerate. I was being selfish."

"What?"

"You heard me. I was selfish. I stopped you because it wasn't the right time."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It means, Kat," his fingers dig into my shoulders as he presses his lips to the shell of my ear, "that when I make love to you, you won't think of him. You won't remember what he did to you. You won't know he _exists_."

Suddenly it is very hard to breathe in here.

Patrick pulls back slowly, his eyes searching mine for recognition. My brow pulls together and I bite my lip to keep from whimpering. Instead, as soon as he releases my arms, I pull my hand up and swipe it across his cheek stingingly. "Jerk."

Patrick accepts the slap with a sigh that says he knew it had been coming. "Are we settled up, then?" he asks impatiently.

I hesitate to think. He wants me. He just didn't want to sleep with me while worrying that I was still thinking about Dean. It's ridiculous. And I'm still pissed. But I can't help the small smile that tugs at my lips. I'm still frowning up at him. Yet I'm smiling, biting my lip, and still smiling. "Yes."

"Good," he breathes a millisecond before slamming his lips into mine and wrapping an arm around my waist. He lifts me off my feet and spins us to pin me against the side wall. My legs go around his waist and my arms lock around his neck. I breathe him in and let my eyes close.

I feel ridiculous and embarrassed by myself.

I turn my head out of his kiss and gasp for breath. My hands push aimlessly at his shoulders. His lips leave a trail of yearning fire along my collar bone. "You see what you've turned me into, don't you?" He tips my chin and sucks in my lips again. I crane back and continue, "Some stupid," he kisses me, "melodramatic," he kisses me, "mess." He _kisses_ me.

And then wisely chooses not to comment.

We end up skipping first period all together…

I'm late for second period and Mr. Wong isn't happy with me. I take a seat beside Mandela and offer her a ridiculously silly smile. She brightens and leans across the aisle once Wong turns to reiterate his words with chalk on the board.

Mandela's Goth-garb is lighter than usual. Her raven-short hair is holding a décor stripe of platinum white. It reminds me of something that I can't quite place. Something to do with superheroes and leather suits. I don't know. She grins at me like she knows my secret. Do I have a secret? "Look who woke up on the right side of the bed, for once." She pulls back and we don't say anything more as the lecture on the quantum leaps of the 16th century commences.

Then the bell rings and we flood out of the masses and make our way to the Ladies Room. "Good Morning," I sigh.

"Alright," she locks the door behind her and checks the stalls before she turns and levels me with a no-nonsense look. "Spill."

"What?" I shrug innocently. I have no idea what she's talking about. But I'm still smiling.

"You're practically glowing. What's going on with you?"

"Just…" I turn to wash my hands and stare at myself in the mirror. I am glowing. Jeez, what's gotten into me? Don't tell me I'm turning into one of _those_ girls. "I had a good morning, is all. Nothing spectacular, trust me."

"You're hiding something," she chimes softly, smiling slyly as we turn away from the sinks and retreat to our lockers for third period prep.

I go my way and she goes hers, and I find myself sitting in the lab beside Susie. Great. No, really, I mean it. Sort of. "Look at you," she whistles under her breath.

"Okay, what is this, a conspiracy?" I demand. I concentrate on my notes as she plops down beside me. She's not my lab partner, but she doesn't seem to care, and class has yet to begin.

"I guess you talked to Patrick then, got everything straightened out."

He told her? Why does that bother me? "Yes." I move my shoulders and try to remain polite. God, I _am_ turning into one of _those_ girls. Someone shoot me.

A change flickers across her features and I can already tell I won't like where this will go. "Did Bianca accept that dance-invite she got?"

Oh that's right, Bianca got asked to the school dance. By who? I can't believe I forgot to ask. Probably that Cameron dork. He's so in love with her. It's really pitiful the way he follows her around like a lost puppy. If she'd just snap out of her clueless phase already and _do_ something about it, either way, take pity on the poor boy. But no, Bianca is turning into a very ditzy man-eater. On second thought, I doubt it's him though. He doesn't have the guts to outright ask her. And I'm not so sure she'd have gotten all worked up over it the way she did. No, knowing Bianca it's probably some shallow, popular asshat. The quarterback, I bet.

"Really, Su, just give it up already. It's a waste of time to harbor a torch for my sister."

The bell rings and everyone files into their seats. Susie keeps shooting me furtive glances from across the room all the way through class. I really don't know what to do about that. Maybe I should just tell Bianca that Susie's got a thing for her and pawn it off on her to deal with. I want to. But that wouldn't really be the responsible thing to do, now would it? No. I suppose I'll have to deal with this myself.

After school I walk out to the parking lot to find Bianca sitting on the hood of my car. But she's not waiting for me, no. She's flirting. With some tanned, blonde, muscle-bound jock with baggy pants and a wife-beater, who happens to show off his bleached-teeth smile when I walk up with a scowl on my face.

"Oh Kat, this is Beau," Bianca smiles brightly and I hate to rain on her parade but I can't help it. I toss my bag inside and tug her off balance so that she goes careening off of my car. She stumbles and Beau catches her arm to steady her. She flashes him a girly smile and flips her hair. Then she spins to shoot me spiteful glare.

I smile back and lean my hip against the car to wait while he pulls her off to the side and whispers in her ear. She giggles ridiculously and pushes playfully at his beefy shoulder. He's got to be older than her. I don't like this.

"Better watch out," Patrick murmurs in my ear. I crane my head and squint up at him through the lowering sun. He leans his shoulder against the car, mimicking me, and looks over my shoulder at Bianca and Beau.

"What kind of a name is Beau?" I snap irritably and fold my arms over my chest to frown at them. "I don't like it."

"The name or the fact that he's hitting on your little sister?" he asks amusedly.

"Both."

My mind starts to get lost when I feel his hand glide around my hip to settle low on my stomach. He leans in. "Your father back yet?"

"No." I detach myself from him carefully and turn in suspicion. "Why?"

He smirks, shrugs disinterestedly, and looks off somewhere while he mutters, "No reason."

"Be careful where that mind goes, Verona." I turn back to Bianca, who's moseying back to us with a huge smile on her face. When Beau walks away she turns to me and squeals. "Come on," I roll my eyes and usher her to the car.

"See you later, Stratford," I hear Patrick call from behind me. I look over my shoulder to find him walking away. Okay. Why am I disappointed? Get a grip. I'm turning into… _Bianca_.

"So," she says mischievously as we pull out of the parking lot, "You and Patrick, huh? I knew it."

"It's not a big deal." I shrug, focusing my attention on the road.

"Bigger than Dean," she cries giddily.

"Let's leave him out of this, please."

"Okay, fine, so about this party—"

The rest of the afternoon is spent listening to Bianca whine because I won't let her throw a party at the house while Dad's away.

"_I want...You…to want me."_

I lie in bed with my hands laced over my stomach and listen to Bianca belt out in the shower down the hall from my room. She's got a set of lungs on her, I'll give her that, but she couldn't carry a tune if her life depended on it. We don't really share the musical gene. Mom obviously only handed that one down to me.

My eyes flutter closed with a sigh. And something rips and rustles. My eyes snap open just as my Guerilla Girls poster sails down over my face. I hop to my feet, balancing on the bed, and hurry to straighten the poster out and get it stuck back on the wall before it wrinkles. The stucco isn't very compatible with the masking tape I used to hang it up above the headboard. I'm slanting forward, stretching my back out to reach, when someone clears their throat behind me.

I glance over my shoulder to see Patrick sitting on my open windowsill. His ankles are crossed and his arms are propped behind him on the sill. But his eyes are not on my face. "Knock much?"

"Didn't your mother teach you not to jump on the bed?" he scolds mockingly. Pushing away from the window, he swaggers towards me. "You do remember how it ended for the monkeys, don't you?"

"Yes, but see, I've got a thick enough skull to stay resilient. Therefore, bed-jumping is perfectly—" I cut off when his thumb hooks in the loop of my jeans and twirls me to face him. In this position, I'm taller than he is. I smile at that and lean forward. "I like having the higher ground for once."

"I bet you do," he murmurs wryly.

My hand lands on his shoulder to keep me balanced as I slant over him for a kiss. Shivers run down my spine at the contact. His lips are unexpectedly cool—meaning he most likely wasn't wearing his helmet as he rode over here. I take a closer look at his hair and find mussed, wind-blown curls. I contemplate scolding him before tossing the thought away and warming his lips. My hand runs along his face, my heat against his coolness. "You know," I say against him, "you could have used the front door."

"I like sneaking through your window. There's something perfectly improper about it."

"I'll say." I hook my arms around his neck and scrunch my toes in the comforter. Bianca's singing abruptly ceases and there's nothing but silence. I rest my forehead against his and breathe slow. Then it hitches as his thumb skims the hem of my jeans and fiddles with the button. I dart back out of his reach with a playful smile. "Oh, I don't think so. You had your chance."

"What makes you think—?"

"I know that look in your eyes."

Something flickers over his features and my smile drops. We're stuck staring at each other in stillness. My eyes catch his hands flexing at his sides, fisting then releasing painstakingly. I think of the feel of those hands running over my body. I can't help it. It brings heat up to my face, and leads a blushing trail down my throat and across my chest. My stomach tightens. The air is thick. I have to swallow to get in any air.

I want to—

"Kat…" he calls huskily, his fingers snake between the waist of my pants and drag me back to the edge. He stretches up to kiss me but I turn my face. He groans lowly in response and rests his head on my chest.

My fingers find their way into his curls. I take a deep breath and speak of what's been nagging me since our first kiss. "I'm not a 'one of many' kind of girl."

Patrick lifts his head to look up at me with a lowered brow. "I know that." His Adam's apple bobs imperceptibly.

"So if I'm not going to be enough for you, you need to be straight with me. 'Cause if that's the case, this—" my eyes dart to the nonexistent space between us— "can't happen."

Silence settles in thickly around us. He stares up at me, studying me, making self-conscious feelings slither into me.

I'm all set to have my heart broken when he startles me by bursting out with a short, sharp, throaty laugh. His fingers bend over the curve of my waist on each side, hugging tightly, keeping me there. My body hovers centimeters from flushness with his. I frown and am all ready to attack when he presses his lips to mine shortly to shut me up.

"Kat, do you have any idea how much energy you take?"

"I—" am confused.

"Even if I was interested in doing so, I don't think I could handle taking on more than you." He smirks at me like he knows he's going to get under my skin. "If you haven't noticed, I've got my hands full here with you."

He tries to tug me against him, but I resist, keeping him at bay. He ignores the hint and stretches up to kiss me again. And again, I turn my head away, thinning my lips and furrowing my brow. "That's not an answer," I tell him stiffly.

Patrick sighs softly and draws back to study me. I wish I can tell what he's thinking. "Is that what he did to you?" he asks quietly. "Did he cheat on you?"

A bitter bark of laughter escapes me before I can stop it. I shake my head and turn my eyes back to him. "I wish," I breathe into him. My fingers dig into his shoulders and I let myself mold against him, my back arching to fit, our chests pressed together, our lips tangled. He slides his hands over my ass and slips up under my shirt to press his fingers into my skin, sending shock-tingles through me. My knees buckle momentarily. My willpower is rapidly decreasing.

"Kat…"

"Mm," I rip my mouth away, "no." I try to detach from him but he won't let me go. "Bianca's just down the hall," I try halfheartedly. I don't feel comfortable like this, knowing that my little sister is just a few feet away, and can hear everything. Music would fix that. But no—not right. I shake my head at him (more at myself) and try to ignore the growing sensation of yearning. But it's too late, because the liquid heat is already pooling dangerously in my convex and that undeniable throbbing is not far away. He's not helping matters either, what with staring at me like that, and looking that way, and touching me like— "Oh."

"Mm Hm," he moans his agreement and tucks his chin over the crown of my head when I press my face into his neck. His hands are slipping higher up my back, dislodging my blouse, igniting more cravings.

He pulls me into him and I don't even put up a show of resisting. I simply melt into him. The thick aroma of sandalwood and hazelnut caresses my synapses. He pulls the shirt up over my head and I shake my hair loose while lowering my arms. I smile at him as his eyes rake down me. His fingers dance experimentally down the bridge of my chest, tracing a wiggling line down my stomach, till he reaches the buckle of my jeans. His thumb and forefinger deftly flick open the button and lower the zipper. He's moving slow, all of a sudden, and his eyes are on mine instead of watching what his hands are doing.

He brushes along my skin excitably as he drags the jeans down my hips, slips 'em past my thighs, and makes me step out of them altogether. I steady myself with a hand to his shoulder as I kick the legs off me and let him toss them aside. His molten, assessing gaze travels down me from head to toes, which curls in reaction. All of my body seems to curl under his attention. I feel the curling as a stirring inside too, low in my belly.

I look down to see what he's seeing—and suddenly I'm regretting not wearing something sexier. I'm in black-cotton-bikini panties and one of the plainest bras I own. I have lace. I have front-clasp. I have thong. I have luscious lingerie. Why could I have not—oh right, because when I robed this morning I was dead-set on pretending Patrick Verona _does not exist_.

That turned out well, now didn't it?

He makes my throat close up with the way he's looking at me. His eyes still have yet to come back up. And his hands are roaming undecidedly.

"Thou shall not covet," I laugh through the strain. With a huff of breath I tear myself out of his arms and bounce backwards to the other side of the bed, out of his reach. He starts to follow but halts when he sees what I'm doing. I flick on the first playlist I reach, and titillating church bells ring out ominously. AC/DC's _Hell's Bells_. I spin the volume up till there's no point in even pressing your ear to my bedroom door.

Bianca won't hear a thing.

I should feel ashamed of myself for this.

I spin on my heels, my body rocking imperceptibly to the music, and offer a devious smile when my eyes find his again. He cocks his head as it really gets going, and grins with an arched brow. Recognition lights his eyes. "You are a very special woman," he shakes his head in awe.

I nod my head, not to him, but the slow-moving beat of the song. My hips swing. I bite my lip through a smile. My arms go up over my head as I cyclone down.

He's moving his head with me to the tempo. He absently shrugs out of his coat and strips off his over-shirt. His belt is next. He tries to snatch at me, but I dance out of his reach with laughter in my eyes. His gaze darkens and my smile drops for a second of intensity.

Then it snaps back.

He wiggles his brow daringly.

I giggle and leap towards him, my legs twisting around him and my hands clutching his shoulders. I incidentally whip him in the face with my hair, but he doesn't seem to mind because he's too busy attacking my throat. The momentum of me lunging at him sends us twirling for a minute before he steadies and presses me into the wall. I'm moving up and down against him and there's no need for coaxing because his cock isn't burgeoning—it's amplified. I bite my lip to stifle a very _womanly_ groan.

And already this is so much better than my dream.

"Coincidentally," I pant, arching my head back against the wall as his lips explore my chest, "I had a dream just like this last night."

He rumbles against me and sends indefinable sensations skittering through me. I convulse once before settling into it like riding a wave. "Funny," he rasps, "so did I."

"I doubt it was your first."

"Hell no," he chuckles, his smooth jaw rubbing against the swell of my breast. "I've been dreaming about you like this since the day we met."

"Oh, you mean the day you—" he rudely cuts me off by shoving his tongue into my mouth. He cradles the back of my head, twisting his fingers in my hair, and holding me where he wants me. I grind into him in revenge.

"You talk too much," he informs me when we reemerge. I get the point, but for the heck of it, I shove him away from me and let my feet hit the floor again. I feel steadier, more in control, and I smile because I like it. He stumbles back a step and looks alarmed—and a bit frustratingly panicked—for a second before he catches the look on my face. No way am I backing out now. There's no reason for him to worry.

I slither across the distance and fist a hand in his shirt. It's discarded within seconds and I have him backed up against the bed. He grins as I grip his waist and force him down onto the bed. I follow ASAP, straddling his waist as we sprawl crossways over the bed. His hands ride up my backside to settle on the dip.

He cranes up to capture my lips heatedly while my fingers fumble to undo his pants and get them off of him. I don't get very far before there's an incessant knock on the bedroom door. We freeze and my eyes roll up to see the doorknob being jiggled. Crap.

Patrick lets out a heavy breath and his head falls back to the bed. His hands drop from me and I scurrying off of him and snatch up the ratty rope lying on a chair in the corner. Covering myself haphazardly, I get to the door and crack it just enough to peek out and see Bianca.

"What?" I sound _off_, I realize. My voice is raspy and too shrill. I need to take a breath and gather my cool. I shrug to myself and lean against the doorframe, keeping the door pressed into me to keep her from peeking in. "Ahem," I clear my throat hastily and try again, "What?" There, that's better.

"Dad just called."

Oh God. My heart picks up speed. "He did?" I squeak.

"Yeah," she says, frowning at me warily. "He's coming home early."

Shit. "What? When?" I'm frantic.

"In the morning," she sighs, "So much for that party."

I ignore her because there was never going to be a party. I glance over my shoulder to see Patrick clothed and leaning easily against a wall hidden from the doorway. I turn back to Bianca gravely. "Okay. Thanks. Goodnight."

"Kat—" I shut the door in her face in a hurry and flip the lock into place.

"What a buzz-kill," I groan. There's no way I can do this here, in my room, now. It just won't work. I can't take the worry. It's a mood-killer. "Can we go somewhere?" I ask him.

He just smiles and nods towards the window. "Get dressed."

"Give me a minute." I gather my clothes in one hand and slip out of the room, then head for the bathroom. Once I'm closed up inside I let out a sharp sigh and sag against the door.

A few minutes later I've got myself together and I'm pulling my hair up into a ponytail. I start to pull my rock-band T-shirt on when I catch sight of my reflection.

I groan.

This is definitely _not_ sexy. I can't help but fret over the fact that I have a lot to live up to. Imagine all the gorgeous girls he's… Okay, don't imagine it.

I consider sneaking back to the room to get a few things from my special box to put on under my clothes, but ultimately I shake the thought away. I don't want to make it that obvious that I'm trying to impress him. So instead I just slip off my bra and panties and go bare under my top and sweatpants.

I breathe out, fuss for a second, and take myself in speculatively. I turn and angle as I frown at my reflection. I don't look too bad. I don't look particularly desirable though either. Fuck. I can't believe I'm doing this.

No. No. No. I shake my head. Don't do that.

Without any more stressing, I escape the bathroom's clutches and hurry back to my room. I find Patrick stretched out lazily on my bed, his hands laced behind his head, his eyes fixated on the array of family photos that are tacked up onto a framed space in the wall across from him.

"Ready?" I ask.

He blinks thickly then looks at me. He nods and pushes himself up from the bed. I watch him move and can't help the urges that throb through me.

He doesn't seem too eager. What if he's changed his mind? What if he's realized I'm really more trouble than I'm worth? I mean, with Bianca and then—

Come on, _I counsel myself_, this is Patrick here. Sex isn't some exciting thrill to him. So what if he's not particularly eager anymore? It doesn't mean that he doesn't want me. But still, stay strong. Don't act too… open? Vulnerable? Girly? Just keep your cool. Handle yourself. You can do this. It isn't so bad. You're not going to get hurt, _I lie to myself. _

He starts towards the window but I hold him back. "We can use the door," I laugh.

"I don't know," he frowns, nevertheless allowing me to tug him out of my room and down the stairs. We're at the door as he says, "This feels weird."

"Get over it, Captain Intensity. Can't you do anything normal?"

"Can you?" he dares back.

I leave a note for Bianca just in case and follow him out around the house to where he's parked the boulevard cruiser. The motorbike is conspicuously lacking any sign of a helmet. I cock a brow at him and he shrugs impishly then wraps an arm round my waist and yanks. I climb on behind him and lock my arms over his waist as he kick-starts.

"When are you going to teach me to drive this thing?" I wonder into his ear as he coasts away from the curb. Low laughter rumbles up from him and I squeeze my arms around him spitefully. "I'm serious."

"We'll see."

"And that means what?"

"Meaning: it depends."

"On what?"

"On a lot of things…"

"But—" I stop myself. It's not worth arguing over. "Never mind." I'll bring it up again later. I snuggle into the ride and lean my head back, enjoying the thunder-clouded night sky and the feel of the wind whipping my hair wildly. I'm freezing cold to the hundredth power, but it feels amazing.

He tilts on a turn and scares me half to death, but it seems a normal occurrence and something he did purposely, so I bite my tongue and resist commenting.

I soon find us riding back down the narrowing road that leads to the pond. I'm surprisingly glad. I liked that place. It was… beautiful… and… cozy. Despite the knowledge that last time we were here this didn't go so well, I'm feeling pretty good when he coasts to a stop and silences the engine. I climb off the bike and pull my hair out of its tail, knowing no smoothing will help it after that ride. I shiver violently for a second and he turns just as I'm getting it under control. He glides an arm over my shoulders and pulls me into his body. We share heat as he pulls me down the pathway towards the dock. No way am I getting into that water. I tell him that and he assures me it wasn't his intention.

He drags me to a stop at a spot that overlooks the pond and the hillside. He sits down in the grass and I follow suit, scooting between his legs and pressing my back to his chest. The wind is whipping up the chill and setting it in my veins. He envelops me and delves his face into my hair, resting his chin on the curve of my neck. I lean back and let my eyes fall closed.

This isn't nice.

This is wonderful.

For the first time since even before I moved I'm fully contented with my new life here in Padua. My mate cynicism is out of reach at the moment and I am enjoying it.

And then it shatters—

"What is Dean regretful of?"

"_Would it help to know that I'm deeply, _deeply_ regretful?"_

I stiffen in his arms. He did not just bring Dean up… again. I screw my eyes shut and try to keep the anger at bay. "God, why can't you just let it go?"

"I think I have a right to know," he tells me tersely, his hands, which had been previously running slow cycles up and down my bare arms, begin to harden their touch against me. "I don't see why—"

"That's right," I snap, tearing myself from him and spinning to glare. "You don't see. You don't see anything. Just drop it." I hurry to my feet and struggle for calm. There's no reason to get this upset. Just breathe. "It's none of your business!"

"None of my business," he remarks bitterly, his dark eyes narrowing sharply.

"It's not." I step over his legs and start back up the hill. I feel like running. I need to run, need to shake this off, need to put myself back together and recover rationality. When I hear him stomping after me I do break out into a run. It's a shambling run, but a run nonetheless.

I'm breathing heavy by the time he catches up to me. It doesn't take much. His legs are much longer than mine. He's quicker. Damn him. He grabs my arm and spins me around. I lose my balance and go toppling over. He looks down at me and frowns. "What is with you? Do you always have to freak out like that?"

I pant and lay there in the grass with my head pounding and my eyes glaring up at him. My lips thin. My anger licks out and mingles with something else, something hotter and stronger and more insistent. He lets out a sigh, resigning, and holds a peace-making hand out to help me up. Instead, I clasp onto it and give a good tug. Taking him by surprise is my only advantage and is what sends him stumbling down on top of me.

"_Oomph_," I grunt at the impact, the air gets knocked out of me.

"Kat!" he chides exasperatedly. He rises up on his arms to get his weight off of me, but doesn't completely roll away.

Before he can say anything more, I reach up, and he flinches like he's preparing to duck a punch. Instead of hitting him, I crane my neck and twist my hand in his hair to force his head down to meet mine. Our lips collide harshly, pain nipping out, only overtaken by the intensity riding through me. It takes him less than a millisecond to catch on and return just as fiercely. We crash together over and over again, hard and demanding, lips and teeth and tongues and a heat that is growing stronger and stronger. I writhe and twist and flip us to straddle him. But his hand slaps against the small of my back and smashes me to him, rolling me back underneath him. I can't dominate now. I'm too overwhelmed, too confused… too mindless.

I'm not even fully aware of what's happening: what he's doing, what I'm doing. My body's on autopilot and it is amazing. _This _is new. I'm naked and pinned between his hard body and the dewy grass beneath us. He's demanding and harsh, yet not as rough as I'd prepared for. Just rough enough.

I perk up to take notice though when he catches me off guard. He's hard and throbbing and his hips are nestled between my thighs... but he doesn't just push into me. Regardless. That's what I'm expecting. But no. He stops. He holds himself back. He runs a hand along my slick folds and checks to make sure I'm ready for him. It startles me. Pathetic, huh? But nonetheless, it does, and I still in reaction.

"What's wrong?" he breathes into me, frowning down with concern.

I bite my lip, swallow, and shake my head jerkily. I can't speak. I dart up and take his mouth with more passion than ever. I'm clinging to him and my thighs are squeezing his hips as he thrusts in slowly, hesitates: lets me get accustomed, then we fall into a steady rhythm.

It's shallow at first, ginger, and cautious. It escalates.

I may as well be a virgin. It sure feels like it. I'm too tight, he's too big, and everything he's doing to me is a new experience. It was never like this. I wonder irrationally what I had been doing wrong before. Because this here is... well, this is _this _and there's nothing more to say about it.

I don't even notice till afterwards that my eyes are leaking and my mouth is hanging open and I'm frowning with concentration (just reaching and reaching) and trembling, and as the pressure builds higher and higher I'm sure if I don't get relief _now_ I'll explode... or _implode_. But either way I really can't take any more. It's so good. It's too much. Is it possible to die from an overload of pleasure? It doesn't feel like I'm dying. But it's... it's unbearably good. Literally. My nails are digging into his shoulder blades and my heels are pushing, more and more, harder and harder, into whatever they're planted on, and my muscles are clenching, coiling, and unraveling.

And finally it hits. Spots iridescently explode beyond my eyes and my body dissolves into a quivering mess of jelly. He thrusts a few more times and rides me through the orgasm before he falls over the edge we've been teetering on for so long. He presses his face into my throat and groans out my name.

We're sweaty and spent and panting like wolves that've just run cross-country, and he sinks heavily on me as his muscles give out. It feels good. I can take it. But he doesn't let me, rolling us so that I'm sprawled over him. His head falls back and his eyes stare blearily up at the starry sky. My face presses into his chest and I struggle to catch my breath. It takes a long while to recover. Longer than I'm used to.

I gasp in exertion and laugh against him. "Now I know why they call it the _little death_," I tell him. He chuckles in response and the rumble of his chest sends warm vibrations through me, curling my toes. His hands rub idly up and down my back. Chills erupt. Good chills. Bad chills. Who's to know?

My head is empty of thought and then all of a sudden a nostalgic lyric riddles itself through. A random nonsensical string of words rushes in and floats out unaware.

'_The power of love is a curious thing; makes one man weep and another man sing.' _


	9. Hot and Cold

**9. "Hot 'n' Cold"**

Patrick and I stumble back through the front door shortly after midnight. The house is completely dark and silent. We leave muddy tracks along the Maplewood floor from the foyer into the hall bathroom, where I take him to dry off. It had started raining while we were still lying in the grass, unclothed and unrecovered. Let's just say it helped us get a move on it. I grab a towel from the linen closet and after we shower—and yes, we take turns, because otherwise there'd be no point in showering in the first place—I try to mop up as best I can while he's finishing up in the bathroom.

When he comes out, I let the soggy towel slip from my fingers. He pads out into the hall with a towel tied around his waist, dripping wet, and running a hand cloth through his sopping curls. I scooped up his clothes while he was in the shower and stuffed 'em into the dryer for a quick tumble. Hopefully they'll be dry soon, because my throat is closing up and I'm blushing awkwardly as I stare at him. He doesn't notice, thankfully, as he makes his way to me, busy towel-drying his hair carelessly.

I'm in a clean set of pajama pants and a dry tank, and my wet hair is pulled up into a bun. I feel frumpy. But when he slips an arm over my hips and pulls me into him for a languid kiss I feel incredible. I stretch up on my toes and moan softly into his mouth, hooking my arms around his neck. Before we can get carried away my stomach rumbles and I pull away blushing. Just realizing, "Man, I'm starved." I turn and make my way into the kitchen. After a few minutes of rustling through the fridge I finally find that leftover devil's food from the other night. Grabbing forks, I pull the platter out of the fridge and kick the door closed behind me as I make my way to the island.

I spin, hop up onto the counter, swing my legs over it, and stab my fork into the rich cake. Patrick comes to stand between my knees and snatches the extra fork from me. Just as I'm shoveling a bite of this incredible thing into my mouth it hits me. I nearly choke.

"What?" He frowns at my paling face worriedly.

My eyes widen and I struggle to get past my awkwardness. "We didn't… I mean I didn't…" I groan and let my face fall into my hands, doubling over to press myself into my lap. "I didn't even think about protection."

A low chuckle resonates from him and his hand come sup to rub along my thigh. "Kat," he says patiently, "I wore a condom."

I snap up and end up bumping the crown of my skull against his chin. He curses and I yelp. A hand flies to the back of my head as I grimace. He rubs his chin for a second—assessing the damage—before dropping it in favor of shooting me a halfhearted glare of exasperation. I would apologize, but I'm still stuck on more important things. "You did? I mean I didn't… Are you sure?" I ask skeptically.

He rolls his eyes and nods jerkily. "Yes. I wouldn't do that to you."

I ponder this for a moment. I'm still baffled. "How did I not notice?"

A smug smirk tugs up his lips. He cocks a brow at me—like 'well duh'—and rests his palms on my thighs. "You were a little… distracted," he puts delicately, meanwhile holding back his humor.

I take this in… deeply. And then let out a heavy sigh of relief. I can't believe I hadn't made sure. What had I been thinking? Did all those years of mandatory STD slideshows and birthing videos teach me nothing?

"You're so cute when you're freaking out," he murmurs teasingly, running his thumb over the crease in my brow. I frown up at him. This is serious. This is not funny. Okay, it's a little funny. I crack a smile. He laughs at me, brushes a disobedient wet tendril back, cradles my face, and leans in slowly. His lips cover mine in a slow seduction.

"Insidious man," I mumble into his mouth as our tongues tangle languidly.

He moves in, nudges my knees further apart to nestle in between my legs, and holds me to him as we kiss. The forks clattered against the countertop and the cake sits forgotten as he slips an arm under my knees and scoops me up. We leave the kitchen behind without a second thought and he easily finds his way blindly up the staircase.

He's halfway down the hall, almost to my room (we're so close), when a distinctly soft flickering light catches my eye from under Bianca's door. I tug out of his grip and drop to the floor. I smack my knuckles against her door suspiciously and call out to her. Something is not right. I look over my shoulder at Patrick and ask, "Do you smell smoke?"

He nods curtly, leans back against the balustrade, and crosses his arms over his chest. He doesn't look happy with me.

I shake away and focus on Bianca's door… which is locked. Something is definitely going on. She never locks her door. "Bianca, open up."

"Uh…" her nervous voice resonates from the other side, "Just a minute!"

"Bianca—" The door swings open and my sister is standing there, blocking my way, with an overly toothy smile on her face. It's fake. The first thing I notice is the robe she's wearing. Since when does Bianca wear robes in her room? And why is the room cluttered with burning candles? Why is the scene so… romantic? "Bianca…" Oh no. No. No. No. Don't tell me. I swallow thickly and reach out with dread. My fingers catch the lapel of her robe and pull it sideways. "Ye Gods…" I step fully into the room.

Her wide eyes dart over my shoulder and she waves awkwardly. "Hi. Patrick."

"Is that mine?" I ask incredulously, my eyes still stuck on the fiery red corset-negligee scantily covering her body.

She moves her arms to cover her body shyly and averts her eyes. "Um… yeah… I didn't think you'd need it." Her eyes jump back to Patrick: "Though obviously I was wrong."

"And you do?" I blanch. My eyes jump around the room. I give myself whiplash. Suddenly I'm Dad, peeking under her bed and flinging her closet doors open. When I find nothing, a let out a sigh of relief and turn back to her with narrowed eyes. "Spill, right now," I demand.

Bianca shuffles her feet and downcasts her eyes. "Ahem… well, you see, it's a really long story."

Just then something clatters noisily and I turn to see a potted plant on Bianca's window-ledge crash to the ground outside her window. And the person who just knocked the damn plant over is staring in at us with a wary yet hapless expression. My heart leaps up to my throat. A boy. A boy at the window. Bianca's window. My baby sister's window. My 15-year-old sister's window. While said baby sister is busy lighting dozens of candles while wearing something that literally screams—_"Devour me!"_

I think I'm gonna be sick. The picture is crystal clear now. I wish it wasn't. My first instinct… well, it's what makes me stomp across the room and throw the window open with a deadly scowl. My arms dart out—

"Kat! No—" Bianca shrieks.

He's almost a goner when a pair of arms locks around me, lifts me off my feet, and drags me back. "Patrick. Let me go." I sound scary. I'm sure I look much worse. Good.

"Just calm down, before you do something you'll regret."

"Hah!" I bark. "I won't regret this."

"You will once we have to take him to the hospital."

"He'll only break a few bones—" I try whiningly, still struggling against him.

Bianca wisely keeps her distance but speaks up. "Kat, please don't. You're overreacting!"

"Overreacting!" I screech. I'm about to have a heart attack. I need to get a grip. I shut my eyes, count to ten, and breathe in and out. Then I open my eyes, stare into this Beau Bradford's befuddled gaze, and warn him, "If you ever even _think_ about coming near my baby sister's window again you'll be in serious need of retrieval surgery." Patrick's still got his arms around me, holding me back, and I'm starting to feel a tiny-bit grateful. I really wouldn't have wanted to spend all night in the ER with this kid.

He looks at me with wide eyes, still not quite getting it. "Retrieval?"

I raise my brow and send a pointed look towards his crotch. _'Duh, jackass…'_ Understanding dawns on him abruptly, and sends Beau scrambling away as fast as his terrified limbs will take him. Patrick lets me go and I slam the window down and lock it before swishing the drapes into place and spinning on Bianca. "_What_ were you thinking?" I step towards her and she steps back with fear in her eyes. "No. Scratch that. Tell me now that this is all some sort of sick joke."

"Kat—"

"And for God's sakes, get out of that!" I wave angrily at my negligee. Dean gave me that. I can't stand looking at her in it. How could she do this? "How could you do this? Bianca, what the hell is going on? Explain this to me, now. Or I'm going to have to help Dad ship you off to a Siberian nunnery."

She folds her arms and mimics my demeanor, suddenly hardening stubbornly. She shoots a pointed look at Patrick and without a word he leaves the room, closing the door behind him, leaving us be. "It's not what it looks like," she sighs, falling to sit on the edge of her bed. Misery reeks from her. My anger diminishes. I take a seat beside her and close the robe tightly.

As I stare, I start to feel like the biggest hypocrite in the world. No. I shake my head. I push it away. I defend myself. (To myself.) This is different though. Because this is Bianca. Little Bianca—naïve and easily manipulated Bianca, who is too obsessed with becoming popular and having people like her that she's blind to all the scum that would prey on her innocent-trustworthy self. She's fifteen. She's a virgin. She's _Bianca_. I know what I'm doing. I… yeah, I am a bit of a hypocrite. Okay. Fine. But just because I had sex with Patrick doesn't mean I'm going to hand her condoms and say "go play" and let her do something she'll regret.

That's it. I'm resolute.

"I thought you'd learned from my mistakes. That's the only reason I ever told you about Dean. I wanted you to be smarter than me. But this, B, what is this?" I wave a hand around in bewilderment.

She takes a long, surveying look around the room, down at herself, then sighs and shakes her head. "I have no idea… I guess I thought if Beau and I got serious that I'd finally be one of the 'in' crowd because of it. He says he's going to—"

"No, no, no." I hold up a hand and silence her. "You were going to sleep with this boy you barely know because he'll make you popular?" God, she's taken this obsession to a whole new low. "Bianca," I sigh disappointedly.

She moves her shoulders sadly and looks at her lap. At least she's smart enough to look ashamed. "I'm sorry Kat. I just wanted to fit in. And Beau is really sweet. And Chastity and Joey are doing it, so I just thought—"

I groan. My hand moves absently to stroke her hair. I don't know how I feel right now. I'm disgusted. I'm appalled. But I can't show it. I can't remark on this, not while she's like this. That would be too cruel. "Do I need to pull out the 'be your own person' speech?"

Her laugh is watery. "No. I remember the last one perfectly. But thanks anyways."

"Obviously it goes in one ear and out the other," I mutter moodily.

"Kat," she cries, "what am I supposed to do?" Lowering herself into my lap, she clutches my knee and lets out a dramatic whimper. "Beau won't take me to the dance unless we… you know. And I'll just die if I don't get to go to this dance."

"Why in the world would you want to go with someone who gives you such an absurd, immoral ultimatum?" I have no idea how her mind works. I just can't understand it.

"Because nobody else wants me," she wails.

I can't hold back my laugh at that. Bianca pulls up and glares hurtfully at me. I try to explain, "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. 'Nobody wants you', hah."

"Well, if you hadn't noticed," she spits, "suitors aren't exactly lining up at the door to ask me out."

"Only because you intimidate them," I tell her. Only God knows why. I debate for a few seconds whether to mention it but ultimately favor doing anything in order to keep Bianca's virginity intact for a little while longer. "You know Susie?"

"Aha," she frowns at me strangely.

"She swings both ways and she asked me to talk to you about going to the dance with her. Think about it, Bianca, she picked you over _Patrick_."

"What! No way," she shoves at my shoulder, "get out of here."

"I'm completely serious. Now I'm not encouraging you to experiment with your sexual orientation or anything—" I pause to shudder— "I'm just trying to show you how ridiculous you're being."

"Yeah, okay, so one girl wants to ask me out. Big deal," she sighs, flopping back on the bed. The robe falls open again and I grimace and turn away. Just the thought of Bianca in… never mind.

"What about Cameron?" I ask.

She props up on her elbows and looks at me funnily. "What about him?"

I roll my eyes at her denseness. "Come on, B, it's blindingly obvious that he's utterly 'in like' with you." I hold back a cringe of disgust at myself for even attempting to lower myself enough to use her lingo. "And I've seen the way that doofus Joey stares. He's got a thing for you too. So don't even try to tell me that you have to sleep with the captain of the soccer team in order to bribe him to take you to some lame school dance because no one else is willing to go with you."

A beat skips and she laughs out loud, clutching her side, and rolling in her fit. "Yeah," she chokes out, "hearing it out loud really puts things in perspective. It is kinda ridiculous when you think about it."

I scoff. Jeez, what would she do without me? "So it's settled then? You can take this off," I drawl in disdain, fingering the negligee.

She runs a hand down her corseted-side. "I don't know," she mutters, "It's kinda nice."

"Bianca!"

"Just kidding," she holds up her hands. "It'll be back in your unmentionables box by morning."

"Good." I nod and get to my feet. In the doorway though, I turn back to her in thought. "No. You know what? Just toss it out. I don't want it. I don't even know why I kept it."

I make my way down the hall and slip into my bedroom. I fall back against the door with a sigh and stare out at the thoughtful void in front of me. The chair by the door is overflowing with clothes. I grab the cushion-pillow sitting on top and hold it to my face while I scream my lungs out. Once I'm all out of air, I drop the pillow, and take a deep breath.

Melancholy sweeps over me. My mind's racing, contemplating things that are better left un-thought-of. I close my eyes, brush a slow and heavy hand through my hair, and sniffle. Licking my lips, I take a breath.

"Do you want to hear the story?" I ask the room, breaking the thick silence. My eyes open and find Patrick sitting on my bed, leaning against the headboard with his knees drawn up, and my cobalt sheet flung over him. He looks on patiently and nods, making room on the bed for me. I cross the room, feeling like I'm wading through water, and crawl up to lie beside him. I find his hand and rest my cheek against it. My eyes fall closed again. "I was fifteen, Bianca's age, and still reeling from my mother's death when I first met Dean."

There is the familiar tinny sound of a record spinning on the gramophone. I feel his fingers delve slowly into my hair and twist strands around. I wait patiently for the music to start. He put on Mom's greatest hits album of Steely Dan. Not something I would have chosen, but you have to appreciate good art. Then I plunge into storyteller mode and try to carefully navigate around my words.

"Things started spiraling pretty quickly. The person I had been was left behind without consideration as I spun from one end of the board game to the other and back, just flailing in water. I was just searching for life to feel _right_ again. Simply put, I was pretty freaking lost. Then this guy comes along, who's older and mysterious and dangerous and charming. He sucks me into his world so easily," I shake my head as the memories flood back in. "He gives me my first drink, my first smoke, teaches me to play pool, drive, to lie, to steal, to cheat, to just have… what I thought at the time was fun. I didn't ever read much into what he did or said or what he dragged me into. I just followed blindly with a blissful sense of rebellion. I didn't care about anything or anyone anymore, especially not myself." I pull up to sit back on my knees and look out the window. "The way I let him… affect me, turn me into a completely different person…" I trail off, speechless. I'm losing my aim. I need to edit.

"It happens," he mumbles emphatically. His hand is drawing circles over the comforter between us. His eyes are on me, intent shining through, making me self-conscious.

"The only thing I wouldn't give him was sex," I say suddenly, surprising myself with the openness. His hand stills and something flickers in his eyes that I can't read. "Don't ask me why. I didn't care about anything else. But every time he'd try I just kept thinking about Bianca. At the time she was still interested in emulating me. She dressed like me, talked like me, always pleaded with me to take her along whenever I'd sneak out, whenever I'd go _anywhere_. She'd hang off my friends…" I stop, tilt my head, and correct myself, "_Dean's_ friends." They were never mine, though I couldn't see it at the time. "She thought I was _so cool_," I grit out bitterly.

A shadow of a grin twitches at his lips before it disappears again. His hand travels across the comforter and traps mine. He tugs me forward until I'm lying alongside him, his chest molding into my back, his arm round my waist, and his chin on my shoulder.

I sigh and forge on. I can't wait to get through this, to have it over and done with, and then we can just forget about it. No more questions, no more dodging answers, no more Dean. "At first he acted like he was cool with it: that I wouldn't sleep with him. We'd been 'hanging out' for a little over six months when he really started to get persistent. It was never so overt as to cause a confrontation. That's why, I guess, that it went on for so long. I just ignored what I didn't want to deal with and forged ahead with no aim but to keep myself in the moment and not think about my life." I turn my head to look over my shoulder at him, and crack a wry smile. "I've been dragging this out. It's really not that long a story."

"So just say what you want to say," he tells me patiently.

A dry laugh slips past my lips and I turn away, pressing the side of my face into the pillow. "Yeah… Well, anyway, one night I let things get too far before putting on the brakes. And because I waited too long it…" God, how do I say this? My throat's going dry. My face is burning. Just say it. "He wouldn't back off, and I really didn't know how to handle him when he got like that…"

Patrick's arm tightens around my waist. I feel his entire body go rigid against me. But I'm not brave enough to glance back and see his face. "He raped you—?"

Wow, that sounds so… "No," I say slowly. Not really? How do I answer that? "But it got far enough to make me swear off seeing him. I told him to stay away from me and I got out of there as fast as I could. You know, back then I put up with a lot. But even the Kate I was would never put up with a guy getting violent. You hit me… it'll be the last time you ever touch me. There's no room for negotiation."

"I'd hope so," he grumbles tersely.

"So a few months go by and he still won't leave me be: He's constantly calling and coming around and getting me into trouble with Dad and he got so pissed at one point he tried to go after Bianca. Luckily I got home before he could take advantage of her. I mean," I turn and meet his gaze, "you know Bianca. Imagine her at fourteen, ten times worse than she is now. And way more…"

"Yeah," he nods into me, assuring his understanding.

I take a breath, release it and with it that line of thought, and go on. "Then a few weeks later, I get really messed up on the anniversary of my mom's death. And for some stupid reason I go to see him." I pause to shake my head and screw my eyes shut.

How ashamed of myself I am. I can't even stand to think about it without cringing. It makes me want to tear the damn memory out of my head. Bad things happening to me I can handle. But bad, unbelievably stupid choices I make, things I do to myself, well, I just can't deal with those. They stay locked in a vault in the back of my head, a mental unmentionables box, if you will.

I brace myself and continue gravely. "Some of his buddies were there, and it was obvious, even with my own light-head, that they'd all been drinking for some time already."

Patrick's body—which had begun to relax—goes rigid again.

"By far the dumbest thing I've ever done, sitting around drinking feeling sorry for myself and wallowing in loneliness and teenage-angst." I laugh, trying to make light of it. It doesn't work. I sober. And when I speak again, my voice is cracked and full of bitterness and a harder edge than usual. "He must've thought I'd be too drunk to remember, remember what he did to me, how he treated me. But I wasn't _that_ far gone." I feel a heartbeat comforting me. I can't tell if it's his or mine. The music fades as I start again, leaving only my voice to chase away the silence. I feel more exposed without the soundtrack. "I went to him willingly, God help me, but when it was over he tried to pass me around to his friends. They all thought it was hilarious and I was too out-of-my-mind to really do anything but struggle not to pass out."

He presses his mouth to an exposed spot on my back. My hand glides over his and our fingers entwine. It's nice. It relaxes my tense muscles, lets me breathe out in relief. "Did you ever report it?"

"Report what?" I debunk shortly. I turn and rise up to look at him. "We were all drunk and I _chose_ to go there."

His brow furrows, his eyes tighten. He rises up as well. "That doesn't make it right, Kat."

"I know that," I sneer. "But I wasn't about to go making a huge thing out of it. I went to the hospital, I made sure everything was okay, but there was no way I was going to let anyone find out what happened. I'd never have survived if Dad had found out. I'd be in a convent right now." Patrick flared and before he could argue I held up my hand and silenced him. "I got out of there and I never saw him again. He was too ashamed to come around after that, and other than the occasional email, he didn't exist for me. Then he went off to college and I moved away. That's that." I fold my arms haughtily over my chest and glare, daring him to defy.

We're staring each other down with fervor and I feel a fight blossoming. To head it off I push away the anger and take on a pitiful look—some sort of mixture between shame, sadness, and shyness. Then I turn my face away and tilt my chin down with a sigh. It works like a charm. Patrick softens and huffs out a resigned breath.

"Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snapped at you. It was…" he struggles for a minute, then grimaces uncomfortably, "insensitive of me."

I shrug noncommittally and bite out an awkward smile. "Whatever." Silence exudes as we stare at each other. It's a stretched out moment of comfortableness that I wasn't expecting. When it ends I smile and physically shake off my mood. "Okay, this is weird and depressing. And I'm done with it." I stand up on the bed and hop off, landing in front of my bureau, where the gramophone is sitting. I switch out the albums and set the needle. Billy Joel's _Still Rock N Roll to Me_ beats out and resonates through the room, washing away everything I need washed away.

I spin with vehemence and start bouncing up and down as I look at him. He's watching me with amusement sparkling in his eyes and grinning widely. There's a _"you're insane, but I love it"_ expression on his face that makes me laugh. I spin in the air and add in a few shakes and arm waves to my bouncing as I wiggle my fingers at him tauntingly. _"I dare you,"_ my smile says.

He shakes his head, bemused. "What are you doing?" he shouts over the music. The room is practically vibrating it's so loud.

I hop up onto the bed and start bouncing again. "Making myself happy," I laugh loudly. "You should try it!"

He leans his back against the headboard and cranes his neck to look up at me. His dark hazel eyes are glinting and his face is lit up. I love it. I love this. I bite my lip and move with more energy than I'd ever believe was possible from me.

The door swings open and Bianca storms in. She's in flannel cupcake pajamas and her hair is up in curlers. Her mouth hangs open idiotically as she frowns up at me like I'm crazy. "_What_ is going on?"

I turn on her and shimmy my shoulders. "_'What's the matter with the clothes I'm wearing?'—'Can't ya tell that your tie's too white!'—'Well maybe I should buy some old-tab collars.'—'Welcome back to the age of jive!'_" I jump down from the bed and start to bounce around her as I sing wildly. My laughing is disrupting the notes but I really couldn't care less.

Bianca watches me in abstract horror for a few seconds before she bursts out laughing, and jumps to join in. We jump up and down together, leaning back and forth, singing silliness to each other until the chorus hits and we turn on Patrick in unison. Our smiles are devious. We stalk him. He tries to resist. He fails. He's laughing his ass off as we climb up onto the bed and dance around him crazily.

"'_Where have you been hanging out lately, Honey?'—'You can't dress the fashion till you spend a lot of money.'—'Everybody's talkin' 'bout the new sound. Funny! But it's still Rock N Roll to me!'_"

The drums and bass are joined in by a sax and we reach for the stars as we spin in circles and shake and hop clumsily. I'm panting and laughing so hard I feel like I'm about to collapse. But I keep going on pure adrenaline. I wiggle down, bend over, and grab Patrick's arm. Bianca mimics and soon we're dragging him to his feet. The sheet I'd forgotten about slips and I panic, but he's in a pair of Dad's plaid pajamas, ones from yesteryear. He catches my look and laughs.

The rest is pretty lost. The three of us tumble around ungracefully on the bed as we dance bouncingly and Bianca and I sing at the top of our lungs. Patrick's too busy laughing to sing with us, but he dances, trapped between Bianca and me.

"_What's the matter with the car I'm driving?_" I sing defensively.

Bianca giggles, looks admonishing, and throws her hands on her hips. "_Can't you tell that it's out of style?_" she retorts outrageously and utterly off-key.

"_Should I get a set of white-wall tires?"_

"_Are you gonna cruise the miracle mile?_"

Drums explode and our exuberance rejuvenates itself. Patrick snakes an arm round my waist from behind and pulls me from my bounce in favor of the shake 'n' twist. His voice is ethereally inflected when he sings, "_Nowadays you can't be too sentimental. Your best bet's a true baby blue continental._"

"_Hot Funk! Cool Punk! Even if it's Old Junk! It's still Rock N Roll to me!_" we three harmonize awfully. Somehow we find ourselves back on the floor. And Bianca flings herself up onto Patrick's back, startling him. He rebalances easily and grips her legs to keep her from sliding off. I smile at the sight and our spectacle continues to rage.

Bianca is still clinging to Patrick and lost in her own little world as she flips her hair back and forth and bobs her head. Her eyes are squeezed tight and the smile on her face is radiant. It brightens me. I step the distance and arch to fit within his silhouette. We're smiling at each other and starting to ease down just the slightest.

"_Oh! It doesn't matter what they say in the papers. It's always been the same old scene! There's a new band in town—but you can't get the sound—from a story in a magazine! Ain't got ya_—"

The gramophone screeches and the room plunges into sudden silence. I still. My body goes rigid. My eyes go wide. What's this feeling? Oh right. Terrifying panic! I spin slowly, like the next victim in a horror movie, who's just been clued in that it's her time to die, and find my bedroom door still flung open. But the space there is no longer empty. My heart plummets. My arm tingles. Maybe I'm having a heart attack.

"Dad!" Bianca blanches, like a deer-in-headlights. She slides slowly from Patrick's back and lands on her feet. I feel Patrick's chest pressing into my back. He's half-naked. It's after one in the morning. And he's in my bedroom. Half-naked. With Me. And Bianca.

We're dead. So very, very dead.

And Dad's having a stroke!

*

"Daddy!" Bianca wails tearfully.

Thunder rolls thunderously loud outside, and a split second later lightning strikes.

Bianca, Patrick, and I are sitting on the living room sofa. The duck tape wrapped around my ankles is stinging, and I bet its worse for Patrick, who's smashed between Bianca and I with his wrists taped together.

"Dad," I sigh calmly. "Just let me explain the situation. It looks much worse than it is," I swear rationally.

Dad started out bright red. But now he's turning towards a more purplish hue. He's still pacing a feverous line from one end of the sofa to another. He dragged us all down the stairs and taped Bianca and my legs together, and then went on to bind Patrick's hands. He set us down on the sofa in an orderly fashion. Then he proceeded to pace. Now he's just mumbling incoherently and shaking his head over and over again. I'm worried he might have actually gone over the deep end this time.

"Mr. Stratford—" Patrick starts only to stop when he receives simultaneous hits from Bianca and me. The last thing we need is him drawing attention to himself.

"Daddy," Bianca sighs nervously, "really, it's completely innocent."

"Innocent!" He tosses his hands up and looks heavenwards.

"Dad," I clear my throat and take on an authoritative tone. "Bianca's right." I look to Patrick then back at Dad. "Patrick and I were on a date. I know—" I hold up my hands— "I should have talked to you about it first. I'm sorry. We took my car, because I didn't want to ride on his Harley. I know how dangerous those damn things are. And while we were driving back to the house after dining at a respectable but reasonably priced restaurant, it started raining.

"Yeah, definitely," Bianca chimes in, "raining _really_ hard!"

I shoot her a look that says, _"I don't need your help"_ and continue smoothly. "By the time we got home we were both soaked and freezing and it was late. I didn't want Patrick driving on his bike in a bad thunderstorm like that, Dad, that just wouldn't have been safe at all," I insist emphatically. Bianca nods jerkily with wide eyes and Patrick wisely stays mum. Dad stops pacing and turns to squint at me. He cocks his head to the side and concentrates, as if he can read my mind if he tries hard enough. He thinks he's a human-lie-detector. I don't sweat it. I've got his number. My racing pulse is just— "Anyways," I cough. "I gave him a pair of your pants to wear so I could put his clothes in the dryer, because they were soaked and he was going to get sick if I made him stay in sopping wet clothes. Dad, I was just being hospitable. And well, we were waiting for the rain to stop when I put on some music and well… we were just dancing. And that's when you… got home."

"Dancing!" A strangled noise comes from his throat and sounds like a small animal dying. He looks about to faint he's so flustered. "_Dancing_ is not what keeps me up to my elbows in _placenta_ all day long."

"Ew, Dad, don't be gross." My exclamation seems to lend him some small comfort. "You know me better than that." I send a dry look around the room. "Do you really think we were having some sort of wild incestuous threesome?"

Patrick's brow shoots up, his lips twitch, and Bianca gags and swallows thickly. "I just threw up a little in my mouth," she tells us gravely.

I smile sardonically up at him. "While the dad's away the daughters will play." I cock my head and taunt him. Now, you might be thinking I'm crazy for acting like this right now, but really, it's the only attitude that will convince him I'm _not_ _lying_ to him.

Something strikes and he backs out of the room, his eyes on us like a predatory hawk. Sighs make the rounds before he reemerges with his laptop in hand. He sets it up on an end-table and positions it so we have no choice but to stare at the screen. Bianca and I groan knowingly when he opens up a familiar folder.

"Oh no, Dad, please just ground us," Bianca pleads.

"Patrick's clothes are in the dryer if you want to go get them and let him get dressed," I suggest helpfully.

He points severely at the screen. "After."

Patrick leans in to whisper in my ear, "What is this?"

I shake my head and catch his eye as he pulls back. "A very informative tutorial on the dangers of being a teenager with an operable sexual organ," I mutter dryly.

"I'll be damned if I have my daughters go gallivanting around—"

"Gallivanting?"

"—partaking in rainbow parties and whatnot."

"Oh come on," I exclaim defensively. "That's moral panic and you know it—"

He points a finger at me. "I'm the expert here, Missy."

I go on as if I don't hear him. "—feeding adult fears that morally bankrupt sexuality among young teens is rampant, despite the lack of any evidence, contrary or cohesive."

"Would you speak _English_?!" Bianca throws her hands up and glances back and forth at us in exasperation.

I turn to her and speak slowly, "Unsubstantiated hype that drives adults—_like Dad_—to be paranoid about scenarios that aren't even an issue in reality…"

"Huh?"

"Freaking out over nothing," I sigh and roll my eyes at her. Turning to Patrick, "Have you ever been to a party that could possibly be categorized as rainbow-key-orgy-or similar other?"

"No."

"Have you ever had knowledge of said parties going on in your community?"

He brings his bound hands up to hide his smirk. There's laughter glinting in his hazel eyes. "No."

"There." I turn back to Dad and cross my arms.

"That's beside the point." Dad turns on the DVD player and double-whammies us with a birthing video and a slideshow of STD case-file photos that will haunt my nightmares for years to come. By the time we've taken all he's got to throw at us, it's almost four in the morning. Bianca's fast asleep, snoring, and drooling onto Patrick's shoulder. Dad's sitting cross-legged in a chair in the corner, watching us intensely. I yawn and rest my head on Patrick's shoulder. The slideshows empty and the screen goes dark. The rain has slowed to a drizzle.

I blink bleary-eyed and meet Dad's gaze. "So are you okay with Patrick and I dating?" I ask him tiredly, my voice muffled and drained. I'm too tired to even lift my head from Patrick's shoulder. The circulation left my legs an hour ago and I'm sure Patrick's wrists are killing him. This definitely constitutes as abuse. But I can't really blame Dad for going all gung-ho after walking in on us like that. It did look pretty bad: Patrick shirtless, Bianca on his back, and me pressing against him like a cat in heat with moony-eyes. Oh man, _what_ was I thinking?

He sighs deeply and lifts his chin from his hand. "You know what this means," he says sadly. "It means your sister will be able to date now."

"She'll be alright," I murmur sleepily. "She can handle herself."

He makes a '_humph'_ sound and it's neither an agreement nor a dismissal. "The whole reason I made the rule that Bianca can't date unless Kat does is because I was sure no sane male would risk life and limb to ask her out," he grumbles to himself as if we aren't even there. "Look how that turned out. Counter-affecting, hah," he croaks bitterly. "I should've known some thrill-seeking hoodlum would find his way to my Katharina eventually. I just can't believe—"

"Dad," I cut in patiently, gesturing towards Patrick's bound hands and my bound feet.

Muttering as he goes about it, Dad grabs a pair of scissors and cuts us all free (with immense reluctance as he comes to Patrick). "You," he levels a murderous finger at Patrick. "Go get some clothes on," he barks, already moving to pull Bianca into his arms and carry her upstairs. He pauses on the mid-steps and glances back at me in warning before he leaves us alone.

I bend down to rub my ankles before I try to stand up. I take Patrick into the laundry room and retrieve his clothes. I turn and hand them to him, pausing as he towers over me. "I'm sorry," I shake my head.

"Yeah, I think my retinas are permanently scarred from all that gruesome imagery," he chuckles.

I close my eyes in embarrassment. The heat sneaks up to my cheeks. I groan as he laughs again, running a thumb over my cheek. My head hits his chest. My arms go loosely around his waist. He pulls me into him. "You must be tougher than I thought if _this_ doesn't scare you off." I say it jokingly, but there is an underlying sense of insecurity in my voice that I try to conceal.

He combs his fingers through my hair, running down my back, and sighs against me. "I'm not going anywhere, Stratford."

"Oh yes, you are," Dad's voice startles us apart. I look to find him glaring in at us from the kitchen.

"Right then," I sigh awkwardly.

Patrick chuckles, holds his hands up for my father's benefit, then takes his clothes and backs out of the laundry room. "I'll see you at school."

"Hopefully," I mutter to myself once he's out of sight. "If I make it to morning alive that is."

Turns out, I make it to morning just fine… besides for a screaming headache and debilitating sleep-deprivation. I nearly fall asleep in my plate of eggs and toast. Then I almost swerve into oncoming traffic on my way to school.

I drop Bianca off at the front entrance and go around to the parking lot. Stomping my way across the quad, I bump into a few people who don't move out of my way in time, and head for my locker. On the way, someone sneaks up behind me and clasps a hand over my mouth, dragging me backwards. My first thought is—Hell No! I clamp my teeth down into flesh and slam my elbow back into his ribs as I'm plunged into darkness.

A hiss of air is knocked out of him, he releases me to double over and grunt. I spin and back myself up against the door. Door? Right, because I'm in the Janitor's closet. The closet… "Whoops."

"Damn it, Kat! You bit me!" Patrick looks up to glare at me incredulously.

"That's the first thing you learn in victims-no-more. How did you expect me to react?" I fold my arms and watch apologetically as he gathers himself, alternating between rubbing his palm with the other and bringing his arm into his sore ribs. He doesn't look very happy to see me, I think laughingly. I can't help it. I smile a little at him, barely restraining my laughter.

"I don't know," he grumbles, "Maybe a 'Hello' or even a kiss-good-morning." Despite his sarcasm I step the distance and stretch my calves to hover near his lips. His frown deepens as he looks down at me, takes in a slow breath, and then darts down to capture my lips in a breathy kiss.

It's funny how much this thing between us has altered so instantly. Like, sex is the catalyst for a whole change in dynamic. I'm kind of sad about it. Yet I'm not, because it's not that different. It's still us… just without the need to deny desires or control ourselves when we get urges. So really I don't mind this change so much. But it is funny, how it all switches so easily, unnoticed at first, practically over night. The space between us is… freer.

We pull apart and I let out a breathless laugh. "Morning," I say. I take his hand in mine and examine the bite mark. It's not that bad, didn't even break skin. I drop it with an exasperated sigh and roll my eyes. "You'll live." I turn to escape the stuffy closet when he grabs me and pulls me back. I'm trapped in a restraining bear-hug from behind. "You're not getting me into _another_ detention for being late."

He glances at his wrist and speaks against my ear, "We've got time."

"You're not even wearing a watch!" I try to wiggle out of his embrace to no avail. His hand smoothes over my stomach, going lower, and I'm laughing and arguing when he suddenly slips said hand beneath my jeans. "Whoa," I stiffen. "Patrick. No." No way. What is he doing! "Patrick! I mean it, stop." I reposition against him and hold onto his wrist, stopping him from going down any further. His mouth latches on to the pulse point in my neck. I can't help but gasp out a laugh. "I was sure my dad's little tutorial would have turned you off for at least a few days…" I mumble, leaning my head back to allow him better access. He tries to move his hand again, but I stop him. In revenge his fingertips dig low in my belly, waving in a strange sensation. "Patrick—" I try to protest. I sound lame. I'm breathy and flushed and I don't sound stern at all. Damn him. "Pat—" I'm whipped around, forced back and my mouth is assaulted before I can finish.

His hands grip my hips, suddenly jerking me up against him. My legs go around his waist and my hands dig into his upper back. Distantly, I'm aware of various sounds, like a bell ringing and commotion. Then closer I notice a subtle _clicking_ sound. Did we knock something over? "Mm, Kat."

"Did you hear something?" I mumble between kisses, a crease forming in my brow.

He shakes his head and dips low to suckle along the hollow of my throat. His lips are warm and pliable and insistent—an excellent combination, I've come to realize. So when he starts doing things to me I'd never even thought of, I really can't make my brain work well enough to worry.

But afterwards, _boy,_ am I perturbed. How could I have let this happen? In a closet…at school! I'm buttoning up my shirt when the irritation hits me. I swing my head around to glare at Patrick, who is deftly reworking his belt. This is all his fault! "I hope you're happy," I snarl.

Patrick looks up at me, his hair tousled sexily and a deeply sated warmness in his eyes. An insatiable smile spreads slowly over his lips as he stares. "Very," he murmurs insidiously, slanting downwards. I dodge before he can beguile me again. He closes his eyes for a second and composes himself. "Please don't stress."

"I'm not stressing," I claim defensively. "I'm just—"

He looks up and cocks a brow. I give in and shrug my shoulders. He moves closer and fluidly slithers down to press his lips to the junction between my throat and shoulder, sliding tangled hair over my back. "You need to learn to relax," he tells me. "Don't get so worked up over everything. You can have some fun and the world will not end."

"I know how to have fun!" I exclaim, spinning on my heels.

Patrick smiles roguishly. "Sure you do."

"I do!"

"I know."

"You know if you—Is something funny to you?"

"You're getting all worked up again." He slips his arms within the circle of my hands-on-hips position and pulls me to him, dipping to hook his chin over the curve of my throat, breathing in the dark vanilla scent emanating from my hair. "You'd be a much happier person if you could just lay back."

"I'm starting to think it's impossible," I grumble softly.

"We'll work on it."

"Yes, sir, but for now we just need to get to class." I pull from him and reach for the door. Just as my hand connects with the handle I'm whipped around again and being kissed with fervor that has my knees buckling for a moment. He releases me and I sway for a second. And with that, we take our leave.

I hurry down to my locker and rush for Mr. Wong's Economics Class. After making up some pitiful excuse of 'womanly issues' as to why I'm late, I get off without a tardy slip and take my seat parallel to Mandela, who's sketching on the inside cover of her textbook. _What a vandal_, I think in mock-reprimand. She looks up when I arrive and mouths her greeting. Rinse and repeat and we're off for another tediously scheduled day of school.

At the end of the week I'm bound to get written up for skipping first period two days in a row without any sort of excuse. I'm definitely looking forward to that. About as much as I'm looking forward to the dance that Bianca will no doubt try to coerce me to take her to.

Third period arrives and I slip into class with Mandela trailing after me. We take our seats at the back. Students file in slowly—busy socializing—and the class fills. The minute bell rings, and none other than Nina comes rushing in, out of breath. She plops down in a seat parallel to me a few rows down. She shoots me a glance and there is something unsettling there. Susie waltzes in with one of the cheerleaders and she sits down behind Mandela. Our eyes meet briefly and she flashes me a friendly smile. The teacher, I can't even remember her name, is slumped over her desk, head in hand, elbow on stack of ungraded papers. Her eyes are heavy-lidded but not quite closed. She's breathing thickly but not quite snoring. She's dozing when the final bell goes off and she jolts and rubs a hand over her mouth. Removing herself from her desk lazily, she picks up a pile of papers on the edge of the desk and walks down the rows, passing them out. I look down in horror to find a pop-quiz awaiting me. When was the last time I studied for this class?

I'm busy scanning the multiple choice test frantically when I hear the late-morning announcements come on. The television screen mounted on the wall in the corner displays none other than head-cheerleader and gratingly plastic Chastity. She's spouting on about when the tickets for the dance will go on sale and the after-party at her place that night. I tune her out with practiced ease and contemplate the full page of essay questions on page five. I don't remember ever working on this stuff. Did Miss Teacher actually teach it to us? If she did, how did I miss it? Better question—how am I supposed to get an A on a test testing material I can't remember ever studying? This is so not good.

I'm chewing on the end of my pen when someone kicks the back of my shoe. I look up, startled, and ready to bite someone's head off. The girl behind me is staring up at the broadcast. Her face perfectly matches Susie's. I frown. What? Mandela turns to me and whispers, "Kat! That's _you_." But her eyes aren't on me. They're on the screen across the room. I turn my head and follow her gaze, which is effectively freaking me out, and find that bright-peppy Chastity is no longer taking up the screen.

My pen clatters to the floor.

The sound of a familiar angry-rock song full of profanity and lewd vocal-imagery and heavy-metal guitarists fills my hearing. The class is silent. Miss Teacher is gaping, her hands previously full of something hanging empty at her sides and a mess on the floor at her feet. Something slithers up into me and grips me tight. My fingers are raw as they dig into the desktop. This… can't be real.

Images flash by artfully, reminding me instantly of a low-grade music video, something that would most definitely be found on YouTube and nowhere else. I would be interested, amused even, if it weren't for the familiarity of the images flashing by me.

It starts with a sunny day outside. The quad at Padua High. The colorful picnic tables are infested with teen-spirit. The camera pans over the student body lunching and laughing and playing and altogether having a grand time. Then it focuses in on a spot out-of-the-way, by the birch tree in the corner and the patch of grass encroached by concrete.

Patrick Verona is sprawled out on that grass, propped up lazily on his elbows with his long legs stretched out in front of him. He's smirking with dark enjoyment and tilting his head up at someone. I see myself. I'm sitting at a table facing him, Mandela's with me. I'm glaring. He takes an empty water bottle and tosses it towards a trash bin between us. It lands in the grass close by.

Lips move, but all I can hear is the music. I move up from my seat and retrieve the bottle, tossing it into the trash. I turn around and he does it again. Littering. I remember this day. It was the second day we met. I slash some barb at him and cock a brow and he just smiles infuriatingly up at me. I go to pick it up again and something he says has me snapping back up. I remember.

"_Real mature," I roll my eyes, turn back, pick it up, and place it in the bin._

"_I just like watching you bend over," he tells me._

"_Oh that's nothing. You should watch me do this," I quip, and kick the recycle bin over onto him. "Now you know how the earth feels," I smile sweetly._

This goes by too fast. It's on the wrong speed and pieces are cut out.

The footage slides to sharp clips of things I can't make it. Me. Moving and doing things and things happening jaggedly. Kisses and smirks and a shot of me incidentally flipping my hair to look straight at the camera. But I couldn't be. Because for the life of me I can't recall ever catching someone filming me. And the look on my face says I don't know I'm being filmed. But only because I know me. To everyone else it looks like I set this whole thing up. I might as well have winked at the camera. Most of it I really don't recognize. Some things I do, unfortunately. Another scene plays out and I see myself _dancing on top of a table, surrounded by rowdy teenagers. I pull my shirt off and toss it away._

I cover my face, which is burning with humiliation. It's bad enough that I have to remember that drunken night at Nick Shooter's party. Now I have to see it from another perspective too? Great.

Then my heart stops as I look back up to find the screen shadowy and the camera being jostled around for a minute before it stills. It spans out, zooms in and out artfully in tune with the music as it displays a familiar Janitor's closet. I catch a glimpse of my face… and Patrick's leather-clad back. I've seen enough. I cover my face and bend over my desk.

I'm convinced for the first thirty seconds that this is one of those naked without homework and being chased by alligator down school hallway dreams.

Then whooping and clapping arise from a group of stoner-boys on one side of the room. And I realize that 'nope' this isn't one of those dreams. This is real.

"Oh my," Miss Teacher exclaims, flustered, clapping a hand over her heart.

Mandela and Susie are watching with fly-catchers and the rest of the room is in ruckus. It's obvious what Patrick and I are doing in the supply closet. And if it wasn't before, the music pivots a second to let in my gasping his name. Drum solo wails out and then—

Someone runs up to the TV, jumps high, and switches it off. The screen goes dark, Thank God. I look up to see that Susie is my noble rescuer.

The excitement dies down and every head seems to wheel around in slow motion at the same moment to bombard me with dozens of prying eyes.

"Ahem," Miss Teacher clears her throat awkwardly and looks at me. She's blushing worse than I am. But there is intense anger rising up in me to mingle with my mortification. It soothes the need to crumple up and hide. "Well…" She doesn't know what to say. She's flabbergasted. Tell me about it. "Miss Stratford. Perhaps you'd like to go visit the office?" She's meek. It's supposed to be an order. It doesn't sound like it.

I lift my chin, painstakingly. "Right… I'm just gonna go die now." And with that, my fists unclench and I grab my bag and bolt. I'm racing down the hall towards the nearest exit when I hear someone call after me. I burst through the doors and sprint impressively across the lawn and into the rear parking lot. Screw the office. I'm getting out of here.

But when I climb into the driver's seat and start the car, I find myself frozen. I can't leave. Its bad enough I ran out of there like that, obliterating my pride, but then to just slink away and have the whole school know it? No. I can't leave. I have to face the music with a stubborn chin. I'll never be able to face myself if I don't. Well, I will, but it won't be pleasant. No. I have to stay. I have to go back inside, go to the office, straighten this out, and make it through the rest of the day before I can get Bianca and go home. And of course I'll need to stop by the audio-visual room to find out whose ass I need to kick.

That's the plan.

But I can't make myself get out of the car. My muscles are frozen defiantly. My body just won't move.

With a sigh, I give up, and crawl over the seat to lie down in the back. I stay that way for I don't know how long before I hear footsteps pad against the asphalt and the back door creak open. I'm lying on my back with my knees drawn up and my arm flung over my eyes to block out the world. Sandalwood and motor oil fill my senses with comfort and I effortlessly swing my legs over the partition-seat to make room. I feel his leg press against the back of my thigh as he slides into the backseat of my Volvo.

A hand rubs hesitantly along my lower leg. "Sorry I took so long," he murmurs easily. "We don't get broadcasts in the garage."

"So you haven't seen it?" I try hopefully.

"No. But there's play by plays echoing through the halls."

"Great," I groan. My stomach does queasy flip-flops and my throat tightens so bad my mouth goes dry. I feel horrible. "I think I'm gonna be sick."

"Just breathe deep," he adds helpfully.

"What the hell was that?" I fling my arm away and pop up onto my elbows to frown at him. I try not to by angry at Patrick. It's not exactly his fault. The video isn't his fault anyway. The fact that the video had nc-17 material is so totally his fault.

He stares out the front of the car and moves his shoulders. He doesn't look too rattled. That irritates me. But of course, why would something like this bother him? At least he's trying to comfort me… _trying_ being the operative word. "I don't know." A crease forms in his brow and his jaw twitches. "I can't think of anyone that'd be brave or stupid enough to fuck with us like that."

"And why?"

"Well," he sends me a sidelong look and his lips quirk, "when you have a tendency to piss people off as strong as yours is, you tend to accumulate enemies."

"I've never done anything that would warrant this much effort in some sort of revenge." I think.

He smiles like that's funny. I glare. He doesn't comment on it. Instead, he says, "It's not necessarily revenge. Maybe some moron is just fucking around for fun."

I stare at him for a moment in incredulity. He turns to face me full-on for the first time. We share a doubtful look. "You don't believe that."

"No." He shakes his head.

"Fuck." I flop back down and cover my eyes again. How am I supposed to face them now? I'm officially a Paris Hilton carbon copy. Only intelligent, brunette, _not_ a skeleton, and _not_ filthy rich.

"Wanna get out of here?"

How many times has that question led to trouble when coming from him? Too many times. "I can't," I sigh sadly.

"Yes you can."

"No. I can't." I shake my head with resolution. "I'm not running away."

"You kinda already did."

I rise up to glare at him. "So not the point…"

He turns with a shake of his head. "Then you better get back in there."

"I will."

"When?" He cocks a brow at me.

"Soon," I snap irritably.

"Want me to stay?"

Yes. "No." Yes. "I'm fine. You should get back to class."

"We're being called into the office after Third."

"Fine. I'll see you there."

He runs a reassuring hand over me before stepping out of the car. Before he goes, he turns to me and says, "It's not so bad you know. Just lay back." And with a wink, he's gone.

"Not so bad, my ass," I grumble, turning onto my side and pressing my face into the seat.

What a fucking spectacular day. And it's not even noon yet.


	10. ME: One Big Mess YOU: In Big Trouble

"**Me: One Big Mess — You: In Big Trouble"**

Why does shit like this always happen to me? What did I do to piss off God? Maybe I'm being scolded for not going to church on a regular basis. But I'm not really religious. That should be my prerogative. I shouldn't be punished for it. Or maybe it's karma or fate or some of that bullshit. Whatever the reason, this shit does keep happening. And now I have to do something about it.

I'm sitting in this God-awful stiff-back chair staring across the desk at a bored-looking principle Holland. Patrick is sitting in the chair beside me. He's lounging back with on ankle propped on one knee and an arm flung over the back of the chair and he's watching her watch us with stoic amusement. Meanwhile I'm clenching the wooden arms of the chair so hard I'm surprised my fingers haven't roughened the smoothed wood and contracted a severe case of splinters.

"Don't you have anything to say for yourselves?" she asks us archly.

I frown. Patrick doesn't react. We both say, "No." though my 'no' comes out angrier than his.

"Look," Holland clasps her hands and rests them on the desk in front of her, "I'm not going to beat around the bush here. What you've done is a serious—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," I spring to the defense. "What _we've_ done?" I glance at Patrick, but he doesn't seem to be all there. How can this not matter to him? Oh right. He's Patrick Verona. "Principle Holland, Don't you think you should be concentrating on the chump that _made_ the video?" I sit back in my seat with a huff and grumble, "Not to mention the morons that broadcasted it to the entire faculty and student body."

Holland pulls back and eyes me. I suddenly feel like Julia Roberts in _Pretty Woman_… you know, in the beginning when everyone at that ritzy hotel makes her feel like a dirty freak because she's dressed like a whore? Yeah, that part. It is not pleasant.

"I assumed you were the culprits. Though truthfully," she shoots Patrick a dirty look, "I'd never believe that you Miss Stratford would allow this. Mr. Verona, is there something you want to cop to? It's best if you just confess and not lead Miss Stratford on about your machinations. This is a very serious issue. Morally bankrupt and plain out—"

I can't listen to anymore. But at least Patrick has the energy to look indignant. To end this accusation here and now I spin in my chair and level him with a mock-glare. "Did you hire someone to tail me with a camera for the past three months?"

"Yes." He crosses his arms and Holland tut-tuts. He cocks his head and sends me a charming smile. "I just couldn't help it. After that very first insult I knew I was head over heels."

"Quick thinking, there was footage on that video from like my third day at Padua. Very stalkerish," I quip sardonically, matching his head tilt.

"Romeo. Juliet." Holland sighs exaggeratedly. "If you two are done with your little scene, we can get back to the matter at hand."

"Look, you can't hold us accountable for something we weren't even aware of," I inform her, feeling the injustice of it all.

"I certainly can," she argues haughtily. I start to balk when she goes on. "Maybe I can't punish you for leaking that little 'home movie' but there is hard evidence of you and Mr. Verona consorting in inappropriate behavior in a restricted area on school grounds. You really think you're getting off the hook for that simply because someone decided to take advantage of the situation?"

My mouth—which had been hanging open, waiting anxiously for it's chance to launch a counterattack—closes as I sit back in dismay. She's right. Fuck.

Fuck me; I'm in so much trouble.

"What are you gonna do?" I ask, effectively deflated.

She pointedly peruses the two files in front of her with an acrylic nail. I can easily tell the folders apart, because Patrick's is like a book-size thicker than mine. "This is grounds for expulsion."

"What!"

"Come on, Holland," Patrick intervenes on my meltdown with a calmness that baffles me. There's worry creasing his brow, but he doesn't let it show in his voice or his eyes. "We both know you can work around that. There's no need for extremes here. Besides—" he adds with a cocky smirk— "you'd be losing your top student." She raises a brow at him, silently wondering if he has lost it. "Not me," he laughs. "Her."

"Miss Stratford is not Padua's top-ranked student," she states pointedly.

I feel a little put-out. I can't help adding, "Yeah, Patrick. I'm not the top. I'm third."

"Damn," he sits back and lowers his voice. "I wasn't actually talking literal."

I narrow my eyes at him before turning back to Holland. "Please… is there any possible way to avoid this?"

She stares for a long time, so long I lose track, before noticeably softening. "Well, I suppose you could try to work it off. And I could keep this out of any permanent transcripts if I deemed to."

I glance questioningly at Patrick, gaining his approval, before I turn to her and nod. "We'll do anything."

"We are your humble subjects," Patrick rolls an arm at her with flair.

"I'll have to consider this. We'll hold a parent-teacher conference next Monday and see where we can go from there. For now though, you two should get back to class."

My heart sinks. _Parent-teacher conference_… Keyword: Parent? I offer a nervous laugh and hold up a finger. "About that expulsion—" Patrick grabs my hand out of the air and drags me from my seat and is out the door with me before I can grovel. The office door slams shut behind us. I'm staring at nothing and having trouble breathing. I think I'm in shock. "My dad is going to know we had sex." It rings out in my head and echoes through the empty hall.

I suddenly feel like Alice… and not wonderland Alice either. No. I feel like through the looking-glass Alice, where everything is much more sinister, dark and unnatural. I feel like _that_ Alice.

"You don't know that."

I turn on him like a cornered tigress. "_How_ is this going to be kept from him? This is school-wide Patrick. These people talk! It's going to reach him eventually. Hell, it's going to reach him Monday when Holland describes it to him. I wouldn't be surprised if she decides to _show_ it to him! And it's probably on the internet by now." Oh God. I hadn't thought of that! But scarier is…Dad. "I'm going to be sick," I croak, doubling over so that my head is hanging between my knees and my hands are propped on my thighs.

Patrick takes my face in his hands and forces me to straighten up before I start dry-heaving. He looks me in the eye and I'm sure he's trying to forcibly shove all that calm coolness he's got into me. It's not working. But breathing is getting just the tiniest bit easier as I stare into his eyes. He's so in control, so _here_, so intense and focused that I can't help but latch onto that. "This is going to work out. We just have to survive through it. And we will. But you're not going to make it if you can't let things slide off you. You can't let everything get under your skin so badly. Where did your defenses go, Kit-Kat?" He adds just enough humor and mocking into the nickname that it allows irritation to take over.

"Don't call me that," I snap, ripping my face from his hold with a scowl. "And you're right." I take a deep breath, 'woo-saw' the panic right out of me, and force it all into the mental-unmentionables safety deposit box. "Okay," I tell him shakily, "Freak-out-mode is officially under lock and key. I'm fine." It's a lie. But… shut up. I'm doing the best I can.

"Come on then, I'll walk you to class." He places a light touch to the small of my back and herds me down the corridor.

"Look at you all chivalrous," I tease. Patting my bag, I tell him, "But I've got my best pal Sparky with me so I really don't need you to play bodyguard." Truthfully, I'm just being me, and lying through my teeth because I really would rather have him stay with me. But I know I'll be braver without him at my side.

"Did I say anything about you needing a bodyguard?" he asks archly. "No. You don't need anybody. You never do." It sounds like there should be bitterness there, but there's not, (from what I can tell). But it's not a compliment either. So I really have no idea how to take it. I stay quiet and he eventually goes on. "Besides, it wasn't an offer. It was a statement."

"Duly noted," I nod then shut my mouth.

We arrive at my Fourth a few minutes later and he sees me through the door and sends a silent message to the class. _"You can't see me, but I'm always here, lurking. And I will murder you in grisly fashion and expertly dispose of the body if necessary." _Then he takes off down the hall in his lazy-rush mode. He's going to be late.

All eyes are on me as I descend the middle row and slink into a seat in the very back. Most everyone is glaring in arrays of things such as disgust or mocking or humor or lust or that very special cheerleader-back-stabbing-petty-pretty fake smile way that only certain airhead girls can pull off. And even so, they always manage to look like a carbon copy of their fearless leader, Chastity. I grit my teeth and sink my face into my textbook as class begins.

No Patrick, no Mandela, no Bianca. I'm all on my own behind enemy lines and I'm starting to feel the pressure. Chastity is seated in the front row, and she does a very talented impression of an owl all the way through class. Her eyes scorn me. Her smile mocks me. Her wiggly little fingers irritate me. I want to—

The bell rings and I dart for the door (screw dignity) before anyone else can step into my way.

I only make it a few steps down the hall before I'm forced to skid to a stop in order to prevent ramming into Patrick's chest. I arch a brow at him and tease, "What, did you stand guard outside the door?"

"Physics is just around the corner," he tells me.

There's something tenser about him now, I notice. We walk along in silence towards the cafeteria as I subtly try to figure out the mood change. It's like a teen-movie in here. People seem to freeze as we walk by and their eyes follow us. It's eerie. It's irritating.

"How's it going?" Susie pops up from behind us and pokes her head over my shoulder. I try not to startle. But there is a flinch. I almost went for my taser there for a second. She seems pitying and concerned. This is also very strange.

Patrick turns his head a fraction of an inch in way of greeting. I shrug. "Oh, the wonders of teenage stardom…" I mutter bitterly, narrowing my eyes at a freshman girl who dared stare too long. She looks away, startled, and pretends to be deep in an amusing discussion with the girl beside her. I roll my eyes and walk on.

"You better be careful, Su. Walking within a five-foot radius of us is not a good idea right now." Patrick smirks and cocks a brow at Jimmy, the starting quarterback, for giving me the overt-eye. Jimmy turns and stalks off a little too quickly to pull off the coolness he's trying to exude.

"I think I can handle it," Susie says mock-gravely, pursing her lips and swaggering as she trails after us. "Besides, I like the attention."

I'm not sure whether she specifically meant this type of attention or not, but I don't ask, because I really don't want to know. She's not the type that would be bothered with everyone believing she's a slut. Not that I care what people think of me. Because I don't; I just can't stand all the attention, negative or positive, it doesn't make a difference. I do appreciate her subtle attempt at moral support though. Hell, even Mandela joins our ranks when we walk past. I offer her a grateful smile and keep going.

I pass by Bianca in the lunch line and try to go up to her. She turns away from me and folds her arms. "Patrick. Will you please tell my former-sister that I am not speaking to her and that she would do best to forget we were ever related?" she asks snootily, while picking at the fruit selection.

Patrick raises his brow at her before turning to me in boredom. "Did you get that?"

"Yeah," I mutter back. I don't even try to talk to her after that. She's just being bitchy. She'll get over it once she realizes that my humiliation won't completely turn her into a freaky outcast. Or it in fact _will_ and she'll never speak to me again. Either way, I walk away.

Shortly hereafter we find ourselves congregating around my picnic table in the quad. I don't even attempt to eat. Instead, I pull out _The Edible Woman_ and get to work on ignoring everything around me.

"You never did explain what food has to do with a bad relationship," Patrick says quietly, bringing me back to attention a little while later.

I look up and set the book down, keeping a finger in between the pages to keep my place. I look around and recount. Mandela is hunched nervously over her sketchpad while eyeing Patrick warily. Why she's still scared of him, I have no idea. Who could believe all those absurd rumors about Patrick being a cannibal and the son of mafia murderers? Answer: Mandela and half the students at Padua High. I shake my head. And turn to see Susie staring across the quad at Bianca, who's lunching with Cameron and looking like she's trying to pull a chameleon and blend in with the wall behind her.

Susie feels my eyes on her and turns to flash me a toothy smile. "That's it. I'm just gonna go for it."

"No. Susie, wait, d—" I reach over the table for her but its too late. She's already up and strutting bravely across the quad to Bianca. "Oh man—" I sigh, turning my head towards Patrick and holding a hand up to block my view of that side of the quad— "I can't watch."

Patrick smirks at me, enjoying my troubles. "Don't stress out. She gets like this a lot. It's no big deal."

"No big deal? My—"

He takes my chin in his hand and turns my head, "Watch."

I should close my eyes. I can't see this. But I don't. In morbid curiosity I do as he says and watch as Susie talks up Bianca. It's easy to tell when it really gets going, because Bianca is looking dreadful and awkward and glancing over at me as if she wants me to rush in to her rescue. Hah. Then Cameron starts to hedge away, looking cluelessly like a fish out of water. Then it happens. I gasp as Susie suddenly grabs Bianca's face and plants one on her. I'm horrified. And yet, strangely enough, I can't help but burst out laughing. It starts out fiery, like the break-out moment in a teen-movie, but then it fizzles quickly. Susie pulls back awkwardly, a strange look on her face, and Bianca is stunned into open-mouthed, wide-eyed silence. They separate and Susie turns in slow motion and walks back to the table. I cover my mouth and forcibly stop my laughing. I try to look sympathetic.

"So?"

Susie takes a deep breath as she climbs into her seat again and rests her elbows on the table. "Yeah…" she says slowly. "I'm sorry Kat, but it's just not going to work out."

"What?" I frown at her, baffled, bemused, and utterly traumatized.

She looks on pityingly at me and shrugs. "Your sister is an awful kisser."

…

I can't help it. I nearly die of laughter. I'm holding my mouth with one hand and my midriff with the other, trying to contain myself. I almost fall. Patrick catches me, and I lean my forehead against his arm, trying desperately to get my control back. I can't help it. I'm dying! This is so… so… so weird! Oh my God. I'll never forget this! And Bianca! Poor Bianca! Oh God, Bianca! I'm dying! I do fall! I lie on my back in the grass with my legs still tangled in the seat above and laugh my ass off!

"Oh God," I cry, finally coming down from my high, and wiping tears from my eyes. I gasp a few times before I can breathe normally again. I lie there for a few minutes more, gathering myself, staring up at the sky and calming down. Then I notice the pain. I hurt myself falling off the picnic table like that. Damn. I reach out a hand and say, "Help me; I'm stuck."

Patrick wraps a hand round my wrist and hauls me up easily enough to wrap another arm round my waist and untangle my limps from the awkward position. Then I take my seat and search the quad for Bianca. She's nowhere to be found. Oh well. She's the one that didn't want a sister anymore. She can fend for herself for a few minutes. Besides, Cameron's still with her. And her humiliation is nothing compared to mine. So suck it up, I direct the thought to her before remembering that we're not telepathic.

"Are you alright?" Susie asks worriedly.

"I think she was having a seizure or something," Mandela frowns.

"No. She just lost her mind for a second. Nothing to worry about," Patrick says to them.

"I think I pulled a muscle," I grumble, leaning my elbow on the table and my head in my hand.

"That's pathetic," Patrick chuckles. "Don't you ever laugh?"

"Rarely…"

"That's sad." He shakes his head gravely and makes me smile again.

"Anyway," I sigh, fully recovered, "In _The Edible Woman_, the protagonist empathizes with food when she starts to see similarities between the way food is prepped and readied for consumption with the way she feels she's being prepped for the role of _wife_."

"Now that makes much more sense then how you described it before," he tells me.

"I have trouble articulating simple explanations when I'm being purposely irritated."

"We'll have to work on that."

"Maybe if you—"

"Bianca Stratford," the overhead intercom announces loudly, "Please report to the Principle's office immediately."

I frown up at the speaker screwed into the wall above the doors to the building. Why is Bianca in trouble? I have to check this out, despite myself telling myself to just ignore it. "I'll be right back." I grab my bag and hurry through the quad and into the building. When I reach the office the door is shut. I lean against the wall and wait. I can't hear anything, even though the hallway is abandoned.

When the door opens and Bianca is forced out, she has her head held low and is cradling the knuckles of her left hand. The skin there is raw and red.

"What happened?" I ask as soon as she comes out. I rush to her side, worrying.

"I've got a whole week of detention thanks to you," she snarls.

"Who? Me? What did I do?"

Bianca sighs and lets me pull her down the hall towards the quad. "I overheard Chastity bragging about how she was the one that set that switched out the tapes and showed the one of you and Patrick instead."

"So you hit her?" I'm taken aback. Bianca defended me? With violence no less. Wow.

"Not exactly," she squeaks. "I kinda… missed."

"Then how'd you hurt your hand?"

"Well, I missed her face, and got the locker she was standing in front of instead."

"Oh B," I sigh pityingly, flinging an arm over her shoulders and holding her as we walk. "I have to teach you how to fight."

"I wouldn't have to if you wouldn't get me in these messes to start with," she snaps nastily.

"How is this my fault?"

"Uh, duh! If you and Patrick hadn't been doing the nasty in the Janitor's closet then there wouldn't have been anything to catch on film!"

"Oh, don't even! How many times have I saved your ass? Huh?"

"That's the point. You're the one that's supposed to be covering for me! I'm not supposed to clean up _your_ messes!"

I take in a breath before answering. I am determined to not let this bickering escalate. We should be on the same side. We've got enough enemies. "Okay. How about we make a truce?"

"What kind of truce?" Bianca asks warily.

"From now on, we're equals. Whether it's your mess or mine, we'll clean it up together. K?"

"I don't know," she frowns. "I liked it the old way."

"Well, times 'a' changing sis," I mock.

"I guess if you get me a taser too—" she smiles impishly— "we could probably work something out."

"Consider it done," I laugh. We push through the doors and out into the quad and make our way back to Patrick, Mandela, and Susie. "Now though, I have something to take care of," I tell her, setting her down between Patrick and Susie, and turning to head back inside.

"Kat?" she calls after me. "What happened to—?"

I spin and walk backwards as I shout back. "This is a solo mission," I joke.

"Where's she going?" Susie asks.

"To go kick some ass," Bianca states smartly.

Their voices fade as I enter the corridor and make my way towards the girl's locker room. I pull out my camera and sneak into the gymnasium through the back way. Sure enough, I find Chastity and her minions gathered in a spot on the bleachers. They're laughing those fake little girly laughs and making nasty comments about various schoolmates. I smile. I'm feeling a vindictive mood coming on. I stay hidden beyond the edge of the bleachers and peek through. I stuff a hand into my bag and find my mp3 player (the one with a recorder embedded in it). I sit here for at least ten minutes, recording their bitch-talk, and gathering ammunition. They trash pretty much everyone of any importance in the school, and I smile happily. I can so destroy her now.

Finally, the bell rings and the girls scurry across the gym towards the front exit. Chastity stays behind, reapplying her lip glass with her compact mirror. I take my chance and come up behind her. I hop up onto a bleacher behind her and toward over Little Miss Bitch. It takes her a second to spot me in her tiny mirror, but when she does, the lip gloss and mirror go flying and she spins around, nearly falling off the bleacher she's so startled. Her eyes roll up slowly, her face tilting up to mine. I smile down at her sweetly.

"Hello Chastity."

"Shrew," she bites back, folding her arms and trying to not look nervous.

"I hear you're the one responsible for leaking that video of me to the broadcasts." I take a step down towards her menacingly and she backs up, tripping and steadying herself ungracefully.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, that's a shame," I mock. "I was hoping this could move along smoothly. I'd hate to have to leave a mark." I smile through my teeth, tilt my head, and show her my taser. I flick the switch and press my thumb into the side and it jolts out a sudden crackle of electricity.

Chastity jumps, wide-eyed and worried. She holds up a hand to keep me at bay, "Look, I just switched out the tapes. That's all. I didn't do anything else. And I really didn't know what was on it. He just said it was something that would embarrass you. I had no idea it was that bad. I swear."

Her rambling quickly begins to grate against my nerves. "Who he? Where did you get the video?"

I bounce down another step and she scrambles backwards. "I swear. I don't know who made it. Somebody sent it to my email account and I downloaded it onto a DVD. But he didn't tell me who he was. I swear."

If she says 'I swear' one more time I really am going to taser her. "What was the address?" I ask impatiently, cornering her at the edge of the bleachers.

"What?"

"The email address of the person that sent you the video, Chastity, come on, keep up with me here."

"Oh, um, ," she stutters.

I think for a minute but I don't recognize it and I can't recall ever meeting anyone named Lu. I switch the taser off and slide it back in my bag. "Alright."

"I can go now?" She starts hedging around me towards the bottom of the bleachers. I let her get down to the floor before I stop her, cutting in front of her path to the door.

"Oh, one more thing—" I backhand her before I can stop myself.

Chastity clutches her cheek and glares at me through the mess of perfectly sculpted spiral curls that have flung into her face. "Psycho bitch," she mutters under her breath as I walk away.

"You might wanna ice that," I call sweetly over my shoulder right before crashing through the doors to the gym. Fifth Period Bell has already rung, so instead of meeting up with the others, I head down to class and wait patiently for the next break. In between fifth and sixth I find Patrick leaning lazily against the wall beside my classroom. He walks with me without a word as I search for Bianca.

"How'd the solo mission go?" she asks, somewhat testily. She's rummaging through her locker as I stand behind her.

"Good. Now all I need is someone who knows how to track an IP address."

"Don't look at me," she mutters amusedly. Yeah, no way had that thought crossed my mind. Bianca can barely manage her twitter page. But then her hand freezes while pulling out her chemistry book. She lights up and spins to face Patrick and I. "Actually. I think I do know someone who can help."

"Do share," I cock a brow and lean my shoulder on the locker beside hers.

Someone taps me on the shoulder and I turn to see six-foot-six Cameron leaning over me with a goofy smile on his face. "So you need an IP address tracked?"

"And you can help me with that?" I guess.

He nods happily and leads the way to the computer lab. Patrick and Bianca wordlessly tow along. We're all late for Sixth but Cameron sure knows what he's doing with a PC. Not only does he track the email address Chastity gave me and unmask our mysterious Lu, but he also chops up the recording I give him and assures that Chastity's bitchy little soundtrack will be aired from the audio-visual room this afternoon before the last bell rings. I officially approve of Cameron.

Oh, and guess what? Lu is none other than (Yep, we all guessed it) Nina Grosse. I should've known. This thing has stalker written all over it. But I ruled her out because I couldn't understand why she'd be filming me on my first few days at Padua, before Patrick and I really even started dancing around each other.

I guess she was just filming Patrick and happened to catch me dumping a recycle bin on him. In fact, now that I think of it, every piece of footage of me had Patrick in it. So maybe this was never about me to begin with. Gee, now I feel conceited. Great.

After collecting tardy slips, we all scatter to go our separate ways. On the way to Sixth, I start to formulate a tactical plan. _Operation: what the hell do I do about this obsessed psycho girl?_ But before I get very far Patrick stops me and insists on handling it himself. I reluctantly relent, figuring this was his problem to start with anyway. Why not let him deal with it? As long as he does actually _deal_ with it.

After I get through Seventh Period without too big of a hitch, I head out to the parking lot and stretch out on the hood of my Volvo with _The Edible Woman_ in hand and my IPod in my ears. The sun is baking me and there is a rumble of commotion in the background but other than that I have no problem waiting for Bianca to get set free from detention.

My eyes snap back open—obviously I must've fallen asleep—when someone nudges my leg. "Yo, Stratford," someone calls over the music in my ears. I prop up on my elbows and squint through sunlight to see a junior that I share History with leaning on my car with a smart-ass smirk and a leer. I wrack my brain for a name and finally come up with the letter D. Doug? Daniel? Don? David? No. I shake my head. That's not it. "You wanna get outta here?" he asks suggestively, running a finger along my jean-clad leg. "Go somewhere more—" he looks around— "private? I've got a dark closet I could take you to. Maybe we could get acquainted."

I snarl and bare my teeth. "Get lost loser before I do something you'll regret."

He laughs. At me! And steps closer. His hand travels farther up my leg and hits my thigh. My fists clench. My bag's in the car, holding my taser and pocketknife. Guess I'll just have to kick this guy's ass the old-fashioned way. "Feisty, I like it. I bet you're a hellcat in bed, huh?" He slants into me.

I swing my leg up out from under his hand and kick back, landing my heel solidly in his chest and knocking him back. He lands on his ass on the pavement and hisses in pain. Before I can slide off the car and gain my stance he's up and wrapping his hand around my ankle. He jerks, and I slide towards him, off-balance. The back of my head bounces off the hood and I scramble to find purchase even as he gets a hold of me.

"Bitch," he growls. "You'll regret that."

My palm comes up, headed for his nose, but he dodges and my arm goes out over his shoulder, only aiding his hold on me. I swear and stomp on his toe then knee him in the ribs. "Jackass… Get your hands off me." I try to step back as he grunts in pain and swears under his breath. His distraction doesn't help me, because I get a foot away when I realize he still hasn't let go of his bruising grip on my wrist. I wriggle before kicking out at him. The back of his fist smashes into my jaw and sends fireworks exploding inside my eye. I'm knocked onto the ground and barely have enough time to catch myself before my face goes splat against the cement. But I do, and my palms scream out stingingly as the skin is scraped off them.

I flip over and brace myself but… nothing happens. "This whole school is psychotic," I snap angrily, pushing to my feet and brushing myself off. I raise my head and suddenly notice that D-what's-his-name didn't run away at all. No. He can't run away because he's being pinned against the truck parked beside my car by a very pissed-looking Patrick. Great, I think wryly. He's just come to my rescue. Damn. I so did not want that to have to happen. Now I'll never live this down. "You know," I call to him, "You don't have to do that. I can handle my—"

He ignores me and slams a sucker-punch into Derek's gut. Derek! That's his name. I knew it starts with a D. Then he hauls him back up and slams him back against the truck again. Derek winces and struggles to free himself. Pointlessly. Patrick's grip is pretty nonnegotiable right now.

"Aw, man, come on!" Derek chokes. "The bitch started it!"

Instead of responding, Patrick's fists tighten in Derek's collar and haul him up a little higher so that the other guy's toes have to stretch to keep him from strangulating. He leans in and says something that makes Derek pale and nod vehemently. Then he lets him go and shoves him away. Derek hurries his way out of the parking lot without so much as a glance over his shoulder back at us.

We're still for a long moment. Patrick still has his back to me and his fists are clenched at his side. I'm unsure of what to do. But my irritation chases away the unease fairly quickly.

"That wasn't necessary, you know," I snap, folding my arms and narrowing my eyes. "I was handling it."

"Yeah," he bites back, "You were _handling_ it so well when I got here."

"I was!"

He turns around and crosses the distance in two steps. He's right up with me now and glaring down at me dangerously. My body tries to take a step back. But instead, I steel myself, tilt my chin, and glare defiantly up at him. I'm startled when he frowns and suddenly wipes his thumb down my cheek. It comes back wet. Damn it! My eyes are _not_ leaking. I put a hand up to my face and sure enough, I'm crying. Goddamn it. He visibly softens and tries to hug me. I flinch and smack his hand away from me. I try to turn away but he grabs my arm and whirls me around. "Look," he says, clearly aggravated with me, "I know you're pride's hurt. But you don't have to take it out on me. What was I supposed to do? Just stand there and watch him attack you?"

"Yes!" I yell. I take a step back and reevaluate that. And now I feel like an idiot. "I mean… no. I guess."

"Most difficult woman in the world," he mutters to himself and pulls me into him till my face is pressed into the crook of his shoulder. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine!"

"Okay then."

I take a deep breath and close my eyes against him. His shirt is soft against my face… a face that is starting to throb painfully. Damn men. "How come every guy knows just how to hit a woman to make it feel like her face is going to explode? Is there some secret class they have you all take to teach you that?" I don't pull my face away from his shoulder as I speak, so my words are muffled.

He doesn't answer, simply runs a hand slowly through my hair, detangling it as it falls down my back.

We get to enjoy the soothing silence for a whopping five seconds before Bianca bounces up to us. "Oh, get a room, will ya?" She flops into the passenger seat and honks the horn. "Can we go home now?"

"I'll see you later," Patrick says to me, detaching himself from my hold and walking away.

I sigh and watch him go. The horn honks again behind me. I roll my eyes and stomp back to the car. "Alright, already, would it kill you to be a little patient?"

"Let's just go. I'm so over this day."

Later, I'm sitting at the dining table, picking at my fruit and vegetable salad while Bianca complains about how many bad carbs there are in the pasta Dad made for dinner.

"So," Dad begins cheerily, resting his elbows on the table, "How was your school-day?"

Bianca and I lock eyes over the dinner table. "Fine," we chime in unison.

Dad looks between us with suspiciously squinty eyes. Then— "Okay, now that we've got that out of the way. Kat…" He turns to me, severely. I shrink back in my seat. Oh no. What now? "That hoodlum from last night with the unnaturally deep voice, who looks _much_ older than seventeen—"

I swallow. "Patrick."

"Patrick," he says through his teeth. Then he looks up at me and takes a breath. His quickly reddening face starts to cool down. He mimics me and swallows, looking more uncomfortable than I am right now. "Is this thing with him serious? I mean… is he your… your um-uh-a…"

"Boyfriend?" Bianca adds helpfully. She's far too peppy.

He clears his throat gravely. "Thank you Bianca. Yes. Is he your boyfriend?"

"Um… yes?" I squeak. Sort of. I suppose. What do I say to that? "We've—uh ahem—never actually discussed it."

Dad seems to flare up at this. He turns red so fast it amazes even me. "He better be your boyfriend!"

"Come again?"

He doesn't seem to hear me. "…dancing around naked with my daughters and not willing to commit…"

"Dad," Bianca sighs exasperatedly. "He wasn't _naked_."

"Damn near just," he declares, pounding his fist on the table and scowling.

"I suppose that we are getting into a relationship…" I don't know what else to say.

He does a double-take at that. His hawk eyes zero in on me. "What type of relationship?"

Bianca nearly chokes on her water. I shoot her a quick glare before putting on my 'Placate Daddy' face and turning to him. "A fairly innocent, intellectual relationship… where there is hand-holding and reading books and dinner-dates where we stare across the table at each other (out of arm's reach) and—"

"I get the picture, Kit-Kat. And it better stay that way."

I nod with doe-eyes. "Of course, Dad, what do you take me for?"

"Yeah, Dad," Bianca pipes up, "This is your hard-as-nails, sharp-as-cactus feminist daughter we're talking about."

"Thanks sis, you're so sweet…" I snarl.

Dad lightens up at this though and his face lights up. "Right, what was I thinking?" He pats my hand and smiles. "You're my dependable cactus. It's your sister I need to be worried about." And with that he turns to Bianca, I smile joyously, and she glares spitefully at me. It's family dinner as usual.

Before he can get in on her, Bianca's 'light-bulb' face appears. "Daddy, do you remember that old rule we had back in Ohio. You know the one where Kat couldn't date until we'd had an introduction dinner with her boyfriend?"

My eyes go wide. "Bianca. No!" What a sister!

"Oh that's right." Dad turns and zeroes in on me again. And just like that my sweet victory is revoked. "The rule instated after that Dean Moss mishap." Mishap? He doesn't know the half of it. And it's staying that way. "Well, Kat will just have to bring _Patrick_ over for dinner tomorrow night."

"Daddy… No!" I cry.

"Rues are rules, Kitty-Kat," Bianca smiles deviously.

Dad smiles obliviously.

I groan and smack my head against the table.

Just then my phone starts vibrating in my zip-up's pocket. Pulling it out and snatching for a distraction so fast I give myself whiplash I find Patrick's name scrolled across the screen. I smile and excuse myself from the table. Once I'm in the hallway, "So you'll never believe what Bianca just wrangled you into…"

"Kat," Patrick cuts me off. There's something wrong with his voice. It's… well, something is wrong. "I need a favor."

"What sort of favor?" I ask warily.

"I need you to come pick me up."

What? Has he been drinking and doesn't want to drive that death-contraption home under the influence? I start to feel proud before a sneaking suspicion unravels in my gut. "Where are you?"

He hesitates enough to cement my suspicion. Then he sighs and says, "County lock-up."

County Lock-Up? Jail? Patrick got arrested? I process that for a few seconds… _Oh great_. "Am I going to have to bail you out?" Because I don't have any money—is left unsaid.

"No. The charges were dropped. I just need a ride back to my bike."

"I'll be there in ten." I hang up the phone and determine to save my lecture for later. Surprisingly enough, after I explain to Dad that I have to go out to pick Patrick up because his Harley broke down, it's not irritation that's wriggling inside me, making me feel _off_. It's worry.

As I walk up the steps of the local Police Station, I realize that I had almost forgotten what it's like to have a hoodlum (as Dad so fittingly coined it) boyfriend to worry about constantly. I don't know how many times I had to go bail Dean and his band-mate Nick out of jail for all their crooked pastimes. Back then I used to find it amusing. Now though, I'm irritated because I'm plagued with worry. What did he do?

I step up to the clerk and tap on the wood counter between us. "Hi," I bite out a semi-respectful smile for the paunchy guy in blue. "You got a Patrick Verona back there?" I look around, but I don't find him on any of the wooden benches riding along the walls of the area out here. If the charges were dropped, he should be waiting out here for me. Where is he?

The clerk comes back and points me towards one of the backroom doors, "Down that way."

I follow his line of sight and frown. "Why is he still being held in lock-up?"

"We had to keep 'em in spate cells to avoid another incident."

I cock a brow at that but don't ask. Instead, I march into the lockup. It's a small little room with dim light and a chilly draft, with a gritty cement floor. There are barred cages along one whole wall, but it only makes up three individual cells. There is another, smaller wooden desk by the door, with another paunchy guy in blue, though this one looks much younger than the last.

He looks up at me curiously but doesn't speak.

I cross my arms and my eyes find the only two occupants in the cells. I can't… fucking… believe it.

No. Wait. I can. But still… I'm pissed.

"Kat…"

"Let me explain."

I quirk a brow and they both shut up.

In one cell is Patrick, slouching down on the metal cot that's screwed into the wall. Both of his hands are scraped up, raw and red. His lower lip is busted. And his face and body hold a variety of mild battle-wounds. His dark curls are mussed and sticky with something. His clothes are damp and dirty, caked in mud. He's missing one of his boots. He makes quite a picture.

I step closer to the cells. Patrick is eyeing me with concerned and apologetic eyes. Dean on the other hand—who is sitting in the other cell, mirroring Patrick in position and condition… except he's missing both of his shoes—doesn't look apologetic at all. He looks a juxtapose mixture of pissed and pitiful.

I really… I really _don't_ know what to say.

Therefore, instead of addressing either of them, I turn and catch the officer's eye over my shoulder. "Set them loose, will you?"

He cocks a brow and his gaze jumps unsurely between the three of us. "You the chaperone?" he wonders.

I match his cocked brow but don't say anything. He sighs and with a shake of his head steps away from the desk and jangles a set of keys as he walks towards the cell doors. I stand with my hands on my hips as the boys saunter haggardly out of their cells, alternating between sending me pitiful looks and glaring murderously at each other.

"I'm only going to ask once. All I want is a one-word answer," I warn them as they stand in front of me. "Whose idea was this?"

They exchange quick glances before saying, "His."

I stare for another long minute before shaking my head, throwing my arms up, and spinning on my heels. "Get to the car before I strand you here."

Then I stomp out.


	11. Can't Take My Eyes Off You

**"****Can't Take My Eyes off You"**

"Kate. Wait up."

I hear him, I do. I just don't think it's a smart idea to stop and talk right now. I might (definitely) do something I'll later regret. Like run him down. So I keep walking, darting angrily to my car, which is parked in the Police Station side parking lot. Yes. Not a particularly foreign concept to me. I intend to not slow down until I'm in the car and driving away, but that plan gets scrapped when I feel Patrick drop back from my side. With an aggravated huff, I spin on my heels, and address the man shambling after me.

"What?" My voice is dry. It's not even snappy. I'm surprised by myself. I cross my arms and settle into impatience. I can't help but be curious about both of their current states. I mean the bruises and the cuts, fine, I get it—fists work like that. But what happened to their shoes? And why are they both wet and muddy?

Dean sidles up to me, moving slower than normal, and pointedly ignores Patrick's presence. Or tries to the best he can. "Two minutes, Kate, that's all."

He wants to talk? Jeez, when is gonna give this up? I actually consider this, because at the moment he is looking very pitiful and about as infuriatingly adorable as Patrick looks at the moment. But before I can answer—

"You never give up, do you?" Patrick swears incredulously. "What makes you think you've got the right to even look at her?"

A flip switches when Dean turns from me to Patrick, and he immediately hardens. "And what's it to you, New Guy? I've got more of a claim on her than you do."

"You don't have anything."

Their toe to toe now and I have an image of an explosion setting off any second now flashing through my brain. For some reason, this pisses me off even more. I step between them, plant one hand on each of their chests, and shove them back with all my might. It sends both of them stumbling back, off-balance. Yes, I do work out. "If you two don't stop this now _I'm_ going to kick both of your asses and _Dad_ will have to come bail us all out!"

They glance back at me, softening, before sending eye-daggers at each other. They're silently communicating their aggression and I'm left out of the conversation. Why can't I read this language?

"Damn it, I am so not in the mood to deal with this now," I grumble tersely, mostly to myself because I have a feeling that they aren't listening to me anymore. I turn, place my hands on Dean's chest, and force him back a few feet with a dangerous look in my eye. "Dean. Go home, get yourself cleaned up, and stay out of Patrick's way." I step back, turn, and do the same to Patrick, forcing his back up against the car. "_You_ get in the car right now."

Neither of them makes any notion to obey for a stretched-on moment. I stare them down. Then the atmosphere seems to disarm and they go about my orders. Once Patrick is in the car and Dean is off on his way down the street, I let out a heavy sigh.

I slide into the driver's seat and sit with my hands on the wheel and my eyes focused on a spot straight ahead. Patrick sits beside me and stares. I can feel the tension radiating off of him. It almost makes me want to melt. I have this insane urge to coddle and take care of him in the ragged state. Then I remember that he's the one that did this and that there are no serious injuries. I'm sure there is some quite substantial pain lancing through him at the moment though.

We've probably been sitting here noiselessly for about five straight minutes by the time he finally shatters the silence. "I am sorry. I didn't want you to have to see him again. I just couldn't get a hold of anybody and don't have any cash on me for a cab. I wish—"

A very inelegant scoff escapes me. He raises his brow. I shake my head. "Don't even try to give me that crap. This was a possessive-play and you know it." I turn to glare at him. "You just wanted to prove that I'm yours by making me come down and fetch you, letting him see that."

For a second there he has the decency to look ashamed. But then indignity flares up and he gets mad. "That's your feministic paranoia settling in."

"I—" I leash myself just before snapping his head off. I grit my teeth and turn, busying myself with starting the car and merging into traffic. When I think I can talk again without losing it, I do. "I only asked you for one thing. Leave him alone. That's all I asked."

"I tried," he tells me stiffly, staring out his side-window. His fists clench against his thighs and his jaw ticks as he locks it.

"Obviously not very hard," I add wryly. "Seeing as the first time you came across him you attacked him."

"What makes you think I started it?" he challenges, affronted and growing madder by the moment.

"You had to have started it."

"Why?" he pushes.

"Because Dean wouldn't have thrown the first punch, not even if he was provoked."

"Because you know him so well," he bites bitterly.

"I do."

"Is that so?"

"Yes." I turn to look at him. "I know him."

I stare him down as we sit at a traffic light. He gives and turns away, "Why are you always defending him?"

"I'm not defending him!" I'm appalled at the thought. I'm not defending him. I'm just… Crap.

"You know, some other girl, maybe I could understand it. But not with you. I just don't get it. How can you still care about this jerk after what he did to you?"

"I don't care about him." My words are lacking vehemence. But they are true. I don't love Dean. I don't want anything to do with him. "I just don't want you involved with him. I just want him to move on, and he will, eventually."

"Ignore him and he'll go away?" Patrick snaps sardonically. I grit my teeth and clench my fists around the wheel as I pull into Live Bait's parking lot. "I'm sorry I got you involved. But I can't regret pounding on that fucker. He's a worthless—"

"Stop," I snap, parking and shutting off the engine before I twist in my seat to face him. "Just stop, Patrick. Dean isn't a monster." A bitter bark of laughter escapes him. I ignore it. "He's just a normal guy with a lot of problems, who has made a lot of mistakes. I'm not excusing anything he's done. I'm just saying I understand him. And deep down somewhere there is a good heart. Conflicted and confused, but basically good. So even though I want nothing to do with him, I don't want to punish him. I just want to let it go."

Patrick turns his head to look at me. He's transparent. Everything he's feeling and thinking is flashing over his face. He's angry and irritated and struggling for patience and trying not to take his anger out on me, yet really, really wanting to. "Is this _Kate_ talking?" he wonders softly, an underlying sharp-edge to his tone. "Because this sure as hell doesn't sound like the Kat I know."

"You don't know me so well." It slips out before I can stop it, before I'm even aware of what I intend to say. It just comes out automatically. And it takes less than a millisecond for me to regret it. I regret it even before I see the change in his eyes, the way he suddenly locks up and distances himself from me, the way he suddenly grows stiff and cold. I really, really regret it. But I can't bring myself to take it back. Not really. I try though. "That didn't come out right. I meant—"

"I know what you meant," he cuts me off brashly. He throws open the door and tries to step out. I grab his arm and say his name to stop him. He turns to look back at me, stoic. Goddamn it. What the hell just happened? "If you're still weak over this guy, at least have the guts to say it outright and not pretend you're something you're not."

I frown. What did he say? I pull my hand back and feel my jaw clench in anger. "You're being an idiot."

"An insult and a dodge all in one," he drawls, "I'm impressed." He tries to get out again, and again I stop him.

I open my mouth to set him straight, but I just can't figure out what to say. There are no words. My brain is stuttering. It's writer's block of the mouth. Why can't I think of what to tell him, how to make this right? Instead, I change tactics, figuring it is my only option. "My dad insists that you come over for dinner tomorrow night if—" 'if we're going to keep seeing each other.' I can't say it aloud. It would sound too wrong at this moment.

Something flickers over his mask-of-mad but it's gone before I can read him. He turns and his eyes go far off. "Fine… I'll see you tomorrow night." And with that, he pulls away and I let my hand fall. I sit and watch as he gathers his bike and rides off.

How did this turn so wrong so quickly?

I ponder that as I drive home. There is dread eating away at the pit of my stomach. I want to cry, and I'm not even fully sure why. It was just a fight. Patrick and I fight all the time. Life would be boring if we suddenly became cohesive. So why am I so afraid that this is different?

"Kat…?" Bianca's voice snaps me from my stupor. I blink back to reality and find myself in the process of wandering upstairs towards my room. I turn with my hand dangling along the balustrade and see her standing on the bottom step of the staircase, looking up at me with a frown and pursed lips. She's wearing too much lip gloss, as usual, and has her hair done up in curlers for the night. "What's the matter with you?" she asks funnily.

I turn soundlessly and continue on my way. I nudge the door as I walk into my room, but a foot stops it before it can snap closed. Bianca trails in after me, closing and locking us in. She's got her 'secretive expression' on. I flop down on my bed, still ignoring her, and stare up at the ceiling. The originally white ceiling is swirled with various colors in an unprofessional patch of mural-paint. It's abstract. I did it one day when I was incredibly bored. And I never finished. I stare and try to get lost.

"Okay. Give it up, what happened?" She crawls up onto the bed and mimics my position.

"I don't want to talk about it."

She turns her head and studies my side-profile for a while before sighing and turning to look up at the ceiling too. "Okay then."

When Bianca's light snoring alerts me to her unconsciousness, I push myself up from the bed and go through the motions of changing into boxers and a boy-beater. Once I'm comfortable, I take a seat on the rounded, lowered stool in the corner and carefully move to cradle my Mahogany Gibson Les Paul in my lap. My fingers trail reverently over the Rosewood Fretboard before I unplug it from the portable amp set by my feet and find my tortoiseshell guitar pick.

I start out with a low tempo. Slowly jumping from one chord to the next, my fingers feel too nimble to use the pick; I need freer accessibility, so I toss it aside and use my fingernails. The tempo increases on a slow incline and my head starts to move as I hunch over the guitar. Bianca stirs; I ignore her. I play through a vibrato of low depth and slow speed, and the soundwaves take on vocal-like quality that masks the weak-spots in the chord sequences. I only notice them because I created it, so my ears are programmed to pick it out of the dissonance.

"_Wafting towards me, coating my synapses with stardust-tinsel is neon-lit dissonance_," I sing slowly. I let the vibrato fade and trill a sequence as my contralto vocals add a spectral element to the slow-building song. 'Running up the hill' set in slow-motion is how Mom coined the style.

My style takes a lot from her, which isn't exactly surprising, seeing as she's the one that taught me to play guitar, piano, and read and write notes. She tried to teach Bianca too. But the musical essence just wasn't there. For one, she's never been able to pick out the tones. For another, she never had any interest in learning. She was more into making herself pretty. Though she always had an aptness for gymnastics, which is some of what prompted her to become a cheerleader in the first place. The prominent inspiration though was her striving for popularity.

My fingertips dance effortlessly in a memorized rhythm, as if they were programmed to do this, though I know firsthand that they were programmed, by me, after years and years of hours and hours of striving for it. Now it comes so easily though, like second nature, like breathing. The strings play taut and my movements add pressure, making the sequence harden as I reach the pique (the top of the hill).

"_I know what I want "he says" I see it, dream it… breathe it. I know I'll be it. You, be damned. I'll achieve it_."

*

'_I want…_

_I want…_

_I want…_

"_He says"_

_I'll make you bleed. Make you Plead. Make you get down on your knees._

_You'll cry and whine. Your tears are mine._

_I'll make you scream_

_As you writhe beneath me_

_Feel my power_

_Feel your pain_

_Feel us explode with the strength of its rage.'_

_*_

"_He says" _

"_He says"_

_Selfish and Paranoid_

_Tired and Terrified_

_A man that's lost his way_

_Wrapped in dissonance of mind over matter_

_*_

_Angie Baby_

"_I say"_

_Angie Baby_

_Wake up and See it_

_Breathe it Believe it_

_Make those pretty blues open up_

_Make your mouth scream out_

_Don't be quiet_

_Don't be bound_

_Make them see you standing Proud_

"_Be a Man"_

_Let it out_

_Let yourself be found_

_No more No less_

_Let it go _

_Be the best_

_You can do it_

_You're almost there_

_Don't be scared_

_*_

_Sparkling lights and Quiet nights_

_Revelation, Revolution, Resonation_

_The Stardust Tinsel Will Storm_

*

"_The stardust tinsel will reign, fall along your skin like ghostly waves, brighten up the night with neon-lights… And you will shine_." My voice fades and my fingertips slide along the sharp strings, not even minding the way they bite sharply into my skin, rubbing me raw as I repeat ending chord progressions in a drawn-out riff.

When the room falls into silence and my fingers still, I realize that I've had my eyes closed and my head bent. Unkempt-soft waves of my chocolate hair have fallen over my shoulders and are hiding my face like a solid curtain of privacy.

Covers rustle imperceptibly. "That's pretty," Bianca murmurs sleepily. I peek up to see her stretching out and yawning as she cranes her neck to point her heavy-lidded eyes in my direction. I doubt she can actually see me, because I can't see the bright green of her eyes. "Isn't that the melody you were gonna use for the song you're working on though?" she frowns.

"This is it."

"Hm," she yawns again then goes back to frowning at me with a pursed face. "But you said you had writer's block and couldn't come up with any lyrics."

"I was stuck," I mutter disinterestedly, setting down the guitar and coming to my feet to stretch up on my toes and arch my spine leisurely. My fingers flex in the air and my shirt rides up. "Inspiration struck last night, which is why I only got two hours of sleep instead of the three I could've gotten."

"Oh." She turns onto her side and curls up like a cat. "Well, it sounds cool."

"It sounds unfinished," I correct her. Of course, she wouldn't notice the gaping holes in the track and the desperate need for bass and a beat assistance. It sounds pretty raw. But I'm satisfied. A sense of closure at the accomplishment sends me flipping off the light and crawling into bed beside Bianca. She's curled up, but smack-dab in the middle of the bed, so she's taking up more room than she would be if she was sprawled out on one side. I turn on my side and press my back into hers, lever my feet and arms on the head- and footboard then forcibly slide her across the bed onto the left side.

I tug the comforter up over us both and hide my face in the pillow. No counting sheep, no racing thoughts, just darkness and relaxation. I'm out and unaware before I can prepare.

Something's buzzing in my ear, some annoying little gnat that keeps trying to drag me from my dream. It succeeds, eventually, and I feel myself float back to awareness through syrupy sustenance.

I blink, open my eyes to darkness, and register a soft but persistent rhythm that sounds like metal tapping against glass.

The window…

I push up in bed, onto my elbows, and frown sleepily towards the window across the room. Yep, sure enough, the little light infiltrating the room is coming from past the strewn drapes. I rub my eyes and then am able to make out Patrick standing outside the window, his hands shoved into his pockets, looking in at me pleadingly. Oh right. I locked the window. Serves him right… I shake my head in the universal sign for 'go away' and flop back in bed and turn over, giving him my back. He taps against the window again, and I see his steel Celtic ring scratching glass. That explains the noise.

With a huffy sigh, I fling the covers off me, and stumble out of bed and across the room. Leaning against the sill, I flip the lock and slide the window up. "What?" I murmur sleepily, squinting out at him.

"I couldn't sleep," he rumbles softly, rocking back on his heels. His clothes are clean, his bruises are darker, and the swelling in hi slip has gone down. His inky curls are mussed and falling into his eyes. The urge to run my fingers through it hits so hard it's almost undeniable. I clench my fist instead. His eyes flick over me, studying my face, before he sighs and visibly sags. "I don't want to fight, Kat. I just wanted to see you."

God… I melt right here and now. "I know. It's fine." I turn and rest my back against the sill.

"Can I come in?"

My gaze darts to Bianca, who's still snoring incessantly, bundled up in my comforter, in her curlers. "No," I say softly.

Walking away from the window, I tug the comforter off the bed and replace it with an afghan that was folded on my rocking chair. Bianca won't notice. I lock my bedroom door and wrap the comforter around my shoulders as I head back for the window. The blanket trails along the floor after me in train-fashion. Patrick steps back as I climb through the window, trying not to get twisted up in the comforter. I close the window quietly and step out onto the terrace, dragging him towards the corner, where we're out of sight of any of the windows in the house.

I sit down and lean my back against the slanted shingles behind us. Patrick watches me for a second in debate before slowly settling down beside me. We're brushing up against each other and the contact sends tingles through me to mix with the cold-breeze inspired shivers.

He's tense and uncomfortable. I watch him intently and wait. "Should we…" he trails off, struggling, "Should we… talk about it?" I almost want to laugh at how awkward this is for him. He doesn't want to talk his feelings out. He doesn't want an analysis. He just wants things to be right again. He wants the fight to be over. I know this; I see it on his face easily, because it's exactly how I feel.

I take in a deep breath and press my fingertips to the inside of his wrist. He looks down at me and I watch my crimson-painted nails slide down till our hands are palm to palm. I entwine our fingers and clasp him tightly. This here is all that needs to be said. I look up and we lock eyes. I shake my head slowly and smile. "No."

Relief flashes through him and his features soften. I rest my head against his shoulder and he envelops me. We pretend to stare out at the stars. After a few minutes he abruptly hooks his arm under my knees and presses the other to my back, lifting me up and settling me across his lap. I lean in, but when my hand goes to his stomach, he tries to hold back a wince. I look up questioningly before carefully lifting his shirt out of the way to display a small mural of bruises scattered over his abdomen. He covers my hand with his and drops the shirt back into place, pulling me closer. I try to hold back, but once we get settled I'm able to relax against him.

With my head resting in the crook of his neck and the comforter tossed carelessly over us, I let my eyes flutter closed again. "So," I sigh, "Who won?"

He chuckles, and it rumbles up from his chest, vibrating warmly against me. "No one… the cops broke us up prematurely. I'm in a strange way grateful for it though. In retrospect I don't think it would have ended anytime soon. I hate to admit it, but neither one of us were getting the upper hand anytime soon."

I can't help but laugh. I had been wondering who would win in a fight. I guess, now I know: neither. "I assume you ran into him at the bar."

"Mm Hm…" he murmurs into my hair.

"So, how did you get all wet?"

A minute passes that makes me think he won't be answering. I lift my head and look up at him with a furrowed brow. He's looking off with a pained smirk. "Uh, Joe sprayed us down with the tap in an attempt to break us up."

"And it didn't work," I guess.

"Not exactly, but it drove us out into parking lot, which is what drew the passing squad car and got our asses thrown into lock-up."

"Is Joe the bartender?" I wonder.

"Yeah, he owns the place. And now I'm terrified I'll be banned."

"Banned for life? Serves you right," I laugh.

His fingers dig into my sides and make me convulse. I hate that I'm ticklish. I try to pull away in case he wants to start attacking me, but his arm snakes around me in restraint before I get anywhere. "It won't last. Joe always cools down… eventually."

"Did you get it out of your system?" I ask him, nuzzling my face into the soft material of his sweater. My eyes are too heavy to keep open. My body's going lax.

His chest rises and falls under my cheek and he murmurs, "Yes."

"Kat!" someone yells. The voice is familiar; an annoying shrilly sound that protrudes through my comfort and irritates me almost immediately.

"Go away, Bianca," I mumble against something soft and burrow further into the warm body underneath me.

"Kat, wake up! You gotta get inside, like now!"

I frown at that. I'm back to awareness and I'm not liking it. I'm too comfortable. I don't want to move. "Why?"

Someone pulls on my arm, lifting it in the air and trying to yank me up. It fails. My arm flops back down limply. I blink through the stickiness in my eyes and manage to get them open just barely wide enough to see Bianca's panicked face. An unintelligible noise comes from beneath me and I painstakingly turn my head to see Patrick sprawled out beneath me, an arm flung over his eyes, his hair a mess, and his other arm wrapped round my back. It's overly bright and windy. I realize we're still out on the terrace.

"Kat, Patrick, come on, get inside, quick."

"What?"

Bianca tugs on my arm again and resorts to smacking Patrick in the shoulder. He grunts and removes his arm from his face to peer up at her with one eye. "Dad's going to work."

"So?"

"So, he's going to be going out to his car in like one minute, which is parked that 'a' way, in plain view of this," she points to the ground, I think referring to the terrace. The terrace that we are on. The terrace that Dad will be able to see if he—"

"Shit!" I spring up to my feet and help Bianca try to pull Patrick up.

"Uh Oh," she stage-whispers, her eyes on something down below. I follow her gaze and spot Dad walking out to the driveway with a coffee in one hand and a stack of files in the other.

"Fuck." I dive down and fist my hands in Patrick's sweater, hauling him up and shoving him through my bedroom window. We all go toppling into the room, landing in a tangled pile of limbs on the floor below the window.

"Ow," Bianca whines, scooting out from under Patrick and crawling on her hands and knees towards the bedroom door.

I'm lying sideways over Patrick's back and have to roll off of him. I pull myself up and see Dad squinting up at me from down below, his hand frozen with the key in the door lock of his shiny blue BMW. I smile widely and wave and press my foot into Patrick's back when he tries to push himself up. I pin him to the floor and lean out the window. "Morning Dad…!" I shout down cheerily.

"Kat, what are you doing?" he asks suspiciously.

I wrack my brain and spit out the first thing that hits me. "I was hoping you could bring me home some chocolate tonight! You know, I'm PMS'ing insanely bad." I laugh like its funny and pray he didn't see anything he shouldn't have.

He seems to soften at that and takes his hawk-eyed stare-down and turns it into fatherly-understanding expression. "Sure, Honey, do you need anything else?"

"Nope, I'm set. Have a good day, Dad." Without waiting for his response I slam the window shut and leap out of sight. I turn to see that Patrick has rolled over onto his back and is staring up at me with a smirk. "Shut up," I tell him before he gets the chance to mock. I don't let him get up off the floor until I've securely closed the drapes to all of my windows, just in case.

"Let me drive you to school," he says without preamble, pressing into me from behind as I rummage through my bureau for a clean pair of clothes. His lips press to the curve of my neck and his fingers toy with the rolled-up waistband of my plaid boxers. "You know," he murmurs into my ear, "As hot as you look right now in these things, you'd look even sexier wearing _mine_."

I can't help the blush that heats my face… or the blindingly wide (girly/giddy/goofy) smile that threatens to rip my lips. I open my mouth to retort when something hits me like a cement truck going 70 in a 40 speed-zone. I spin on him with bugged-out eyes and an oncoming heart attack. "Where did you park your bike?"

He smiles amusedly but humors me, "Around the corner."

"Which way: right or left?" I ask, panicked.

"Left," he replies, running his fingers through my hair, pulling it out of my face, and pushing it over my shoulders as he leans in to kiss a trail of pleasure down the hollow of my throat.

Left, left, left… Dad goes right. Thank God. I start to breathe normally again and sag against him with relief. It's ironic that the closest calls we've had with being caught by Dad are the times it's actually been innocent… not that that would matter one bit. I'm still fretting and gnawing on my lip when he snaps me out of it by presses his hips into mine, pinning me between him and the dresser. My back arches over the bureau-top and my fingers run through his messy curls, getting tangled and caught, and digging my fingertips imperceptibly into his scalp. I'm just starting to get breathy when the door swings open and Bianca pops in. I shove Patrick away from me with unrestrained violence. The back of his calves hit the edge of the bed and he topples down onto it.

"Okay, seriously, just because Dad's gone—" she starts.

"Bianca, shouldn't you be getting ready for school?" I cut in tersely.

She sends my attire a pointed look and quirks an eyebrow. "Shouldn't you?"

"I'm working on it," I growl. I look down to see that she's in school-clothes already. "Since you're already dressed, why don't you go down and have breakfast while I get ready?"

"Why doesn't Patrick come with me?" she challenges archly, folding her arms with a petty smile.

"Good idea," I surprise her/disappoint him. "Go on," I tell him impatiently.

He gets up from the bed and swaggers out of the room after Bianca, shutting the door behind him.

I let out a breath, because I can breathe freely again, and whip off my tank top, tossing it towards the rocking chair. I spin and bob back to my dresser, sliding the top drawer out and shaking my hips as I pick out a bra to wear.

"_Zoom, Zoom, Zoom. Make my heart go boom, boom—My Supernova Girl._"

I have no idea where that came from. It just pops into my head and now I'm dancing around the room as I get dressed and cleaned up.

I waltz down the stairs with my bag slung over my shoulder, my ratty converses on my feet, and my body adorned in jeans and a white shirt with black-capped sleeves and a chest that spells out _REBEL_ in red glitter with my hair done up in a wavy ponytail.

"_Interplanetary mega stellar hydrostatic—there's no gravity between us. Our love is automatic._" I trail off but continue to hum as I mosey into the kitchen to find Bianca and Patrick huddled around the dining table, matching plates of blueberry pancakes set in front of them. I find mine sitting on the kitchen island and grab it as I walk by. Sitting down between them, I dig in and we continue in silence, though I can't stop humming.

"Oh I loved that movie!" Bianca squeals happily when she finally recognizes the song, though I have no idea what 'movie' she's talking about. It's just a song that's stuck in my head.

I halt my fork and look up at her questioningly, "Movie?"

"Yeah," she nods shakily, "Zenon: 21st century girl. It's an old Disney movie, remember? That's where that song comes from."

I had no idea. "Oh." I turn back to my breakfast.

"So," she continues with zest, "I won't need a ride to school today. I'm carpooling with Dawn and her sister."

"Whatever," I mumble disinterestedly as I take another bite. But out of the corner of my eye I catch Bianca giving Patrick a not so subtle wink of conspiracy and he grins laughingly and shakes his head at her antics. I turn to him and cock an eyebrow. He shrugs in the universal 'What?' gesture. I sigh and let it go.

If he really wants to take me to school, then fine.

"You'll be getting a ride _home_ with Dawn and her sister too, right?" I question. Because I don't think Patrick's motorcycle will feet both me and Bianca on the back of it. Besides, I really don't want her on something that dangerous.

Bianca seems to deflate. "Um… I've got detention." Then she lights up again. "Oh, that's okay, 'cause Dawn's got cheerleading practice, so she'll be there late anyway."

"Fine," I sigh. I take another big bite and note that it was very sweet of Dad to make us pancakes before he went in to work. These things are delicious. And Patrick seems to agree. He finishes before both Bianca and I and kicks back in his chair, leaning up on the back legs. I frown and chide him, "That's how you break chairs."

He rolls his eyes at me but sets the chair back on all four legs without complaint. "We better get going," he tells me as I chew on my last bite. I nod and let him take my hand and drag me from the table. Bianca waves us off and I let him force me from the house and down the street, where he's parked his bike.

"Why are we in such a hurry?" I ask, climbing onto the back as Patrick kick-starts it. "We're not running late."

"Yeah, but we've got a stop to make before school."

"Which is?" I prompt, wrapping my arms round his waist as he jolts away from the curb and glides seamlessly into the traffic of suburbia.

"We've got to stop at my place and pick up my book bag."

"Oh." I don't say anything more. I just press my face into his back and try to smother my excited smile. _His place… _I've never been to his place. I was starting to think he didn't have a place. Now I'm utterly thrilled at the idea of finally seeing where he lives. Wonder what it's like.

By the time we ride across town I'm officially hypothermic. Unfortunately, Patrick didn't have the presence of mind last night to bring along his leather jacket. So as he so elegantly put it when I complained, I'm shit out of luck. I snuggle up tighter to him, flattening my breasts against his back and locking my arms around him, striving for the warmth of his body. It doesn't do much, seeing as he's just as cold as I am… more so, because he's taking the brunt of the wind.

I decide to never ride his back this early in the morning, not without a winter coat.

Patrick swerves jaggedly between two trucks and whips into a narrow spot along the curb of a rundown building that looks more like an old factory than an apartment complex. We're parked between a '67 impala and a rust-bucket Chrysler convertible that has huge slashes in the mesh roof. The wide-paned windows of the crumbling brick window are covered with grime, making them too blurry to see into.

I'm sure the inside looks worse than the out. Yet, funnily enough, I feel more like I belong here than I do in the suburban dollhouse that is my home right now.

I'm shivering and my teeth are practically chattering as he helps my stuff body off the bike and leads me inside the building, into a narrow corridor that has green-chipping paint along the walls and water spots in the low ceiling. It feels claustrophobic in this hallway. But it turns out that it isn't very far from the door to the stairwell, so I'm alright. The stairwell is no better than the corridor, though it goes up so high that it's impossible to feel closed-in because I'm so sure that if I keep going I'll come out on the roof. Luckily, we stop on the third floor and he pulls me through a door and into another corridor, this much wider than the previous. It's not really a corridor, more of a room-shaped hallway that only goes out a few feet, because there is only one door other than the stairwell access.

I bounce on the balls of my feet and rub myself, trying to warm up, as Patrick fiddles mindlessly with his keys and the five different locks in the worn forest-green door with a crooked and rusty brass C7 hanging off it. When he's done with the locks he has to kick the bottom of the door with his boot-toe and bang his shoulder against it, but he finally gets the damn thing open.

He holds it open and ushers me in ahead. Then he has to turn and lean against it to get it closed again. It drags heavily along the dark-gray cement floor, because the top hinge is coming loose. "I've been meaning to fix that," he mumbles when he catches me eyeing the weak hinge.

I shrug and turn to circumference the rest of the room. Out of the corner of my eye I catch Patrick standing behind me with his hands shoved into his pockets and his eyes on me. Is he nervous? I smile at the thought and realize that he cares what I think of his home. I like that. It makes me feel… giddy/girly/goofy. He's been making me feel that way a lot lately. I wonder what's wrong with me…

The studio apartment is much larger than I thought it would be. It's very open and wide, with a tall ceiling and nearly top-to-bottom factory-windows along two of the walls. The off-white paint is chipped and falling off the walls, revealing a cement-hued gray beneath. In the doorway, there is a step down into the room. Off to my right is the kitchenette, which is raised up and kitty-cornered. There's no table, but there is two counters, one taken up mostly by a broken-down looking stove that seems to be one of those they stopped making in the late 60's, a deep-steel sink that is missing one of the faucet knobs, and a rusted over yellow compressor-refrigerator with those narrow doors and the drawer beneath, where the term deep-freezer came from.

The mid-center of the room appears to be the living room, scattered with various belongings that are all strewn over either the floor or the furniture, which consists of one ripped leather loveseat and a TV stand that holds a laptop, an 8'in television, and a gaming console. Underneath the stand are piles and piles of DVDs and video games. I smile and step down into the room. Past the living room, on the far left side is the 'bedroom' and a door off to the right seems to lead to the bathroom. The 'bedroom' consists of a king-size bed with a missing headboard and a wrought-iron footboard, with three mishmash comforters strewn across the old mattress… yet no sheet and only one pillow.

Forming a semi-circle around the bed is various pieces of wooden furniture, two dressers (one with two missing drawers and the other with missing drawer-faces), three nightstands, and two end-tables. Every single one is cluttered to the brim with all of his things. Three tables are taken up with all of his scattered piles of CDs and the low dresser is taken up by a massive five-changer stereo with four different free standing speakers placed around it. Damn. I can't contain my whistle.

Once I've surveyed everything, I snap out of it and spin on my heels to look at him. I cock a brow, "Weren't you gonna—"

He blinks and snaps out of his 'Staring-at-Kat' reverie and brushes past me. "Oh right." He steps around me to his taller dresser, the one with drawers still intact, and pulls out a pair of jeans, blue plaid boxers, a white wife-beater, and a black T-shirt with The Cure logo on it. He tosses the pile onto the bed and lazily proceeds to strip off his shirt.

I turn my back on him, because I'm not sure I'll be able to resist touching if I have to watch him change. I direct my attention to his music collection. That only lasts a few seconds before I realize I'm too distracted to actually pay attention to my browsing. I abandon my perusing and take a hesitate seat on the other side of the bed. When nothing happens and it turns out to actually be incredibly soft, dreamy really, I lay back and stretch out across it.

With my arms stretched out above my hand, my fingers flexing in his direction, I look up to see him belting his jeans. "Would it be acceptable for me to wonder how you support yourself?" I ask carefully, not sure where we stand in this area of personal-sharing.

He snatches The Cure from the bed and looks up as he pulls it on over his head. "Acceptable?" he teases.

"You know what I mean." We lock eyes and I stare at him from upside down, waiting.

He takes a long look around the apartment and sighs. "Well, I had a trust fund from my dad's life insurance policy. But my Ma drained that about a year ago. Since then I've been doing outreach through the school. Mr. Mitchell helped me set it up. My paychecks come from Jay's Auto-Shop on Fourth. I get a little help from my sister's father, though, when I can't quite make ends meet." He sits down on the bed with his back to me and carries on as he pulls on a pair of socks and his boots. "He's a high-end lawyer in LA. So he can afford to toss me scraps occasionally." There's a bitter-quality to his tone that makes my hand snake up to run up his spine. He turns his head to look down at me, trailing a strand of my hair through his fingers, letting it slither away.

"I didn't know you had a sister," I say quietly.

"Half," he tells me with a shrug. "From one of Ma's affairs…"

"Are you close with her?"

"Used to be," he sighs, leaning back to rest on his elbows beside me. He's staring off into the distance as I watch him. "She's three years older, so she was around when I was little, but by the time I was six, Ma had gotten heavy with the drugs and drinking. Lilly's father didn't want her around that." He shoots me a wry look. "He's high-class, you see," his voice drips with bitter sarcasm. "He took her away and I didn't see her again until she turned sixteen and tracked me down. By then my dad had already died and I was back with my mother. So she even then she really didn't come around a lot. We'd meet and go out occasionally, but now she's going to Princeton." He leaves off the obvious 'so we're back where we started' and turns to face me full on.

"Thank you," I tell him mindlessly.

"For what?" he asks, lowering down to the bed and rolling onto his shoulder to get closer to me.

"For telling me that," I smile, then prop up on my elbows and drape over him. My hair falls to brush along his chest and arm. His hand comes up and tangles in it, pulling me down to him for a hot and languid kiss. He makes a yummy noise with his throat when I pull back slowly to breathe. I inhale deeply and close my eyes. The scent of sandalwood is overwhelming now, all around me, dipped in rich overtures of cigar smoke, baking bread, and leather.

"What is it?" he asks me, trailing a fingertip down my face.

I open my eyes to find him staring curiously. "Nothing," I shake my head and move to crawl over him. I lay horizontal over him, my legs on either side of his waist, and straddle his lap as I dart down for another kiss. He nibbles on my lip as my hands slither down his chest. I remember the bruises a millisecond before he hisses into my mouth. "Sorry," I mumble against his tongue. I start to pull away, thinking my weight has got to be hurting him, when his hands slip over my ass and stop me from going very far. "Mm," I moan, turning my face out of the kiss and resting against the crook of his neck. "You think we could just play hooky? Stay here like this all day…" I murmur softly, feeling so pleasantly contented that it's making me sleepy.

A chuckle rumbles up from his chest and his hands begin to pattern small circles along my back, under my shirt. "Sounds nice, but I don't think it's a good idea."

"Mm-Mm—" I shake my head against him— "it's a very good idea." I press my palms into his upper-chest, avoiding his ribs, and push myself up into a seated position over him, my knees denting the mattress on either side of his hips. I take a long, leisurely look at his red, swollen lips and his heavy-lidded, smoky eyes dazed with lust. I start to dart down again when something occurs to me and has me pulling up short with a disappointed groan. "But you're right. I've got a test today that counts for a quarter of my grade. I can't afford to skip it."

His hands find my hips as he looks up at me with suddenly alert eyes. He smirks deviously and cocks a dark brow at me. "Then you better get off of me, or very soon I won't be responsible for my actions."

I look down to where I'm sitting on him and giggle before pushing up to my feet and stepping over him to hop off the bed. "Would you mind terribly—" I say as I pad lazily across the room— "if tonight at dinner we desperately steer clear of anything that might imply that you don't live in a house with at least two chaperones?" I look over my shoulder to see him smirking at me from the bed. I tremble at the thought of Dad ever finding out that Patrick lives alone. I'd never be allowed out of the house again, for _any_ reason. Not even to go buy tampons…

"Not a problem," he chimes, pushing up from the bed, bending under it to pull out his messenger bag, and following me towards the door. I think I'm home free until he ducks down by my ear and adds, "Just as long as I get at least three jabs about my bike."

*

Bianca is perched on top of my picnic table when I come into the quad for lunch. Sitting on the bench beside her scantily-clad legs is a stupefied Cameron. On the other side sits an uncomfortable-looking Mandela, and a glowing Susie, who is busy staring across the quad at Soccer Team Captain/Sleazy Dirt-Bag Beau. Who's missing? Oh right, I smile as an arm snakes around my waist and a smirking Patrick falls into place beside me.

It's been a surprisingly good day so far, besides all the lewd and suggestive comments that have been making their way to me all day from half the student body. The other half is too scared to taunt me, and smartly so.

We sit down on Susie's side of the table and I pull out my notepad to go over the study guide I outlined for the test I have next in Fifth. Patrick slips his handy pair of white ear-buds in and switches on his IPod. Bianca leans over to tap my arm a few minutes into the consistency of Bimolecular Grouping. I flick her fingers away from me with the end of my pen and don't bother looking up from my pad.

"So," she says, drawing it out and shaping her lips in an O, "The dance is tomorrow night. And instead of going with Beau, I've decided to just go with Cameron," she tells me cheerily, then rolls her eyes and leans into me conspiratorially. "I'm so over needing a guy to have fun."

So it's not a date? By the look on Cameron's face I'd say: nope. Poor fool. And Bianca seems so oblivious. But she can't truly be. I told her about Cameron's feelings straight out. She's got to know. So why hasn't she just shot him down yet if she doesn't like him? A second after wondering this I realize that this is Bianca I'm thinking of, meaning she hasn't done anything about it because she doesn't want to lose the attention. Typical Bianca…

I set my pen down and lean my arms over the pad as I look up to level her with a dead stare. "Are you going to sneak out?"

"No, Silly," she giggles in that nervous way that only ever means she's about to tell me something she's done that she's starting to regret because she knows there's a good chance I'll end up killing her for it. And sure enough, "I already told Dad you and Patrick would double-date us. He's given me money to go dress-shopping this afternoon. And you're coming with me."

At the sound of his name, Patrick looks up and removes one ear-bud. He seems to register what was said, more or less, and tears his eyes from Bianca to fix them on me.

I glance his way before turning to Bianca. "Well, you'll just have to tell Dad the truth then, that I'm not setting foot anywhere near that dance."

"But Kat—" she starts whiningly. I can see the frantic look in her eyes growing. She'll become psychotic here in a few seconds and threaten death by pillow-suffocation in sleep unless I go with her to this ridiculous thing.

I kinda would like to do something nice for Bianca, seeing as she's been covering for me with Dad concerning Patrick. But I just don't think I could handle a night all dressed up 'Barbie-style' listening to overzealous pop music played by people so bad they can't even be classified as real musicians, while watching a bunch of hormonal airheads dry-hump each other and spike the punch bowl while Holland has her back turned. I tell Bianca all of this with a sympathetic look on my face as I try to make myself seem less of a total bitch to her right now. Then I go on to reason, "Besides, I'd never in a million years be able to drag Patrick—"

"Oh no, Stratford," he cuts me off, "I agree with B. I'll pick you up at seven," he tells me easily in complete seriousness. I crane my neck around to gape at him. WTF? He reads my expression and smiles innocently. "I have a strong feeling that this will be my one and only chance to see how you look in a dress."

I continue to gape.

Bianca squeals and bounces off the table, throwing herself at Patrick, wrapping her arms around his neck, practically landing in his lap. He looks uncomfortable, but shockingly doesn't shove her away… well, immediately, anyway.

"But I—" I flounder, flabbergasted.

Bianca withdraws from Patrick and climbs back onto the tabletop. She smiles so brightly at me I'm sure I'll be blinded. She's so… so… so _Bianca_. It's infuriating! And I can't… I mean, between her and Patrick… I just can't… Damn.

"Fine…"

Before Bianca can tackle me to the ground, we're disrupted by the PA system suddenly crackling to life. I look up over Bianca's shoulder and wait for the inevitable sound of Holland's sour voice. But instead, shockingly, music starts up. Some sort of soft rock bass with a quickly increasing tempo. I recognize the melody. It's such a familiar. Where is it from? And what the hell is going on? The quad freezes as everyone cranes their necks with WTF expressions.

Patrick smirks widely and nudges Susie. "Hey Su, your cell still got that VID-CAM right?"

Susie tears her eyes from the PA system and frowns at him, befuddled. "Yeah…" she says slowly.

"Get it out… you're gonna wanna get this on film."

I start to ask when all faces turn up to stare flabbergasted at something behind me. I twist slowly in my seat with a since of foreboding. Then I see her.

Nina Grosse (AKA Glenn Close incarnate) is holding a cordless-mic in her hand and climbing up to stand in the center of one of the picnic tables sitting in the center of the quad. Students on the second floor are hanging over the balustrade with open mouths as they try to get closer. I stare, panicked, and wait with baited breath to find out just how horribly this scene is bound to end.

She brings the mic up to her lips and looks like she's about to gag. "This song—" she speaks over the music, which has been lowered (volume wise) to the point that it's just background now— "is dedicated to Kat Stratford." She turns green. I think, really, truly, literally, she turns green. "The coolest girl in the world…"

I can't speak. But if I could, I'd state the obvious and say, "It's finally happened… She's flown over the cuckoo's nest." But since I can't speak, nothing is said.

Then she starts to sing, albeit reluctantly and awfully off-key, but she doesn't stop. "You're just too good to be true. Can't take my eyes off of you. You'd be like heaven to touch. I wanna hold you so much." I don't know who this is more embarrassing for, her or me. "Pardon the way that I stare. There's nothing else to compare. The sight of you leaves me weak. There are no words left to speak. So darling—" she does gag now— "feel like I feel… and I don't know if it's real. You're just too good to be true. I can't take my eyes off of you."

Now I gag.

I feel fingers entwine with mine and I tear my gaze from her to look wonderingly at Patrick, who is smirking in a mixture of 'cat ate the canary' and 'this is so fucking hilarious I'm straining muscles just to keep from rolling on the floor laughing right now.'

I turn back when she starts shouting. Though she sounds more pissed off then in love. "I love you, baby! And if it's quite alright, I need you baby, to warm the lonely nights. I love you baby. Trust in me when I say… oh pretty baby! Don't bring me down, I pray. Oh pretty baby, now that I've found you stay, and let me love you baby. Let… Me… Love… You…"

Nina cuts off abruptly and darts out of the quad, near tears and bright red. The place erupts with a cacophony of laughter and bellowing.

If I wasn't so fucking embarrassed right now, I'd be dying with laughter. Instead, all I can manage to do is sit here… in shock.

"Awe Fuck, that was fantastic!" Susie screeches.

Bianca is wearing a replica of my face right now. Cameron is trying to get his laughter under control while simultaneously looking worried. And Patrick is wiping the tears from his eyes as his boisterous laugh-riot dies down slowly. "Hell Yeah, I so owe you one, AV," he says laughingly to Cameron, who smiles brightly at that. Patrick then turns to me and sees my face. His expression drops. "Don't tell me you didn't enjoy that," he mutters dubiously.

"I—" I-I-I what? Speak! "What did you do?"

"Something I wasn't very proud of until a few minutes ago," he laughs.

"I—" am in wonderment right now. I can't decide whether to laugh or to run screaming with my face covered in my hands. God, that was amazing. "I—" What? Speak! "I fucking love you," I burst out laughing… finally.

Then my words register around the table… and things get unnaturally still.

My eyes widen with realization and I cover my mouth, trying to stop my laughing. If Patrick had been holding anything… it would have dropped. If he had been standing, I think he wouldn't be any longer.

"Did I just…"

"Yes," Bianca nods frantically, "You did."

I'm frozen again. Sharp, awkward glances bounce around the table before they scatter.

"Cameron and I have to—"

"Right, yeah, I'm just gonna—"

"We better—"

"We're just gonna go—"

I find myself alone with a frozen-in-shock Patrick, who seems to have gone catatonic as he stares at me. His lips are parted slightly. His eyes aren't even wide (he's too shocked). He doesn't seem to be breathing either.

What did I do? Stupid, stupid Katharina!

I circle slowly in my seat to face him. I swallow. I breathe. I scream out in my mind. Great, great, great! Fucking great! Jesus Christ, Kat. How many days have you been dating? What the hell are you doing? You're insane! And now you've ruined it. You've chased him away. He's gonna run. He's gonna—

He's kissing me…

* * *

**A/N:** _Damn, I've worked my ass off on this! I'm about to die! Anyway, so, how is it? _

_Note: Stardust Tinsel: an original by Katharina Stratford, is actually a Sarah Rose Serena original, so forgive it's likely crappiness. I'm not much of a lyricist. In fact, this is my first attempt ever at songwriting, and I kind of just improvised on the spot, and I have yet to go back and obsess over it so it most likely sucks. So don't hold that against Kat and her musical skills.  
_


	12. She Can Get It

**A/N: **_Awesome! I'm back! You will not believe what happened to me. I lost my internet. Only I didn't. Because it kept saying it was connected perfectly. It just wouldn't let me on the browser. I tried everything1 Then finally, I figured out what was wrong. You know what it was? The damn modem was in standby mode for some stupid reason. Bastard. Anyway, so I'm back now, as of three minutes ago, and I'm coming straight to you with the new chapter. How do you like that? I'm not going to say sorry for the without notice wait, because there really wasn't anything I could have done to prevent it. _

_Enjoy..._

_-Sarah  
_

* * *

"**She Can Get It"**

"Please don't kill me!"

"Die sucker!"

"Dad!"

… "_Game Over" …_

"_Here I go again on my own! Going down the only road I've ever known!" _Dad rocks out as he flops back onto the sofa with a pleased smile.

Bianca folds up in the armchair at the end of the coffee table, holding her hands in her lap and pouting.

I tap the end of my pencil against the crisp open textbook splayed out over the other end of the coffee table, and look up to grin at them. "Cool move, Dad," I cheer laughingly. "Finally someone handed '_Candy's'_ ass to her on a gory platter."

"Not funny," Bianca sneers, cutting off Dad's bragging, and waving her controller in the direction of the widescreen. "Look at her! My avatar is in itty-bitty pieces now."

"At least she matches that skanky bikini now," I laugh.

Bianca glowers. "I like that bikini."

"Oh well." I shrug non-sympathetically. "Now you'll have to get yourself a new avatar, possibly one that doesn't make the feminist in me want to gag."

"Oh whatever, at least I didn't rip off Tomb Raider," she sneers.

"Hey! 294 is her own person."

"Sure she is."

"Okay," Dad interrupts, rubbing his hands together. "Who's ready for another round?"

"Not me," I shake my head and hunch over my book again. "This AP Trig is killing me. I still have 15 more to do, and then I've gotta revise that paper on Biochemistry. I think I'd rather just be expelled," I mumble the last part to myself as my eraser scrubs the paper of my notepad raw. I am, to say the least, frazzled.

"Lemme just create a new avatar and then I'm all set to kick your ass," Bianca pumps her fists in the air and goes to gather her pair of WII remotes.

"Language," Dad chides.

"I think I'm gonna go for a 'Vice City Mob-Girl' type this time."

"Good for you," I mutter distractedly, "go empowerment."

"Yeah," Bianca sighs forlornly, standing at her place in front of the television as she waves the controls around and works on her new avatar. "But I really liked Candy. That tiger-print bikini and that Samaria sword; she was awesome."

"What am I going to do with you?" I shake my head and work out another open-ended equation.

… "_Ready, Set, Survive" …_

The game gets in again and Bianca and Dad slip on their ruby-shaded glasses and jump into the game. The skin dissolves from the ready room into a dark cemetery that wraps around the haunted Hearst Manor. The tombs are covered with thick mist and the trees are leaf-less and creepy as they hang down overhead. Creaky noises alert the approaching bloodthirsty zombies and the rattle of a chain alerts the arrival of the Lady of the House, the ghostly and murderous Mrs. Hearst. Bianca and Dad's objective is to survive through every bloodsucking murderous thing that is coming at them, find their way through the maze into the house and to the ruby ring that will restore the dawn and end the horrific never-ending night of death, all while trying to take out their competition (each other). It is a rather enjoyable game, despite it all. Not very peace-enthusiastic, but what fun is nowadays?

The doorbell rings and my pencil flies as I leap up from the floor and run to it. I stop with my hand on the doorknob and take a breath till the anxiousness in me is out of sight. Then I swing it open and smile at Patrick.

"Shoot 'em in the head, Dad… head, head, head!"

He raises his brow at me and I shake my head. "Long story," I murmur. I turn to lead him in but find his fingers wrapped around my wrist. He tugs me over the threshold, lets the door slide closed, and presses my back into the house as he kisses me. He didn't give me any time to prepare, so I never got to take a deep breath, meaning my lungs are dying right about now and he still won't let my mouth go… not that I'm complaining.

When we finally pull apart I gasp for air through a little laugh. "Wow," I breathe.

"Yeah…"

I tilt my head to look up at him and jut out my hips as my shoulder blades lean against the wall. My eyes are heavy-lidded now thanks to him. "Do you greet all your girls this way?"

He shakes his head and twirls a strand of my hair around his finger. "Only the ones I can't go an hour apart from without missing," he admits grumpily.

"Wow," I laugh again, "That's pathetic."

"Tell me about it." He dips down and his face disappears in the mess of wavy hair at the crook of my neck. Then I feel his lips over my throat. I know he wore a helmet this time, because his lips are steaming hot. I wiggle under his touch and slide out from between him and the wall. Taking his hand, I lead him inside, ignoring the way his feet drag reluctantly.

"Got 'em yet?" I ask Bianca, who is emphatically swinging her arms this way and that trying to decapitate a rather persistent zombie with her sword. Her gun must've run out of ammo already. She ignores me and lets out a grunt of frustration. Luckily, Dad swoops in and saves her butt before taking off into the trees after spotting an exit to the graveyard maze.

Patrick takes one look at my sister and his brow shoots up. "Who knocked up your sister?"

I follow his gaze to see Bianca scowling at him, wearing the special belly-bump. I laugh. "Her punishment for buying a dress for the dance that's three inches above the three inches above the knee limit," I tell him. He nods and stuffs his hands in his pockets.

I fold up at my spot on the floor again and Patrick stands between me and the sofa, staring uneasily. The only place left for him is the spot on the end, beside Dad. Oh well. He'll survive. I think.

"Run!"

"Dad," I say suddenly, perking up and looking towards the kitchen entryway, "Isn't that the timer?"

Dad follows my gaze dazedly and then snaps out of it. "Oh damn," he pipes up, tossing his controls carelessly into Patrick's lap and darting for the kitchen.

I watch him go then turn to Patrick. "You're in luck. It's eggplant parmesan and fettuccini night."

He nods like he's interested then turns his eyes from the controllers to the screen in debate.

"If you let Bianca bet Dad he'll kill you," I warn him.

With that settled, Patrick determines to figure out the control system. He picks it up quick by watching Bianca. She's so concentrated on her game that she hasn't even noticed Dad's departure yet. But when he did depart, he took his glasses with him, so Patrick can see both perspectives of game-play now, so Bianca is screwed. I smile at that and turn back to my Trigonometry homework.

"Bianca!" Dad calls from the kitchen.

She tears herself from the game and throws her controllers at me, which I fumble to catch, and rushes off to the dining room to set the table. I lock into the game quickly and find my way through the underground tunnel system that will shortcut me from finding my way out of the maze and take me in a straight route into the basement of the Manor. But it isn't so easy. The reason to go the long way is because nobody can survive getting through the tunnel system; it's too flooded with zombies.

I unpack some stored ammo from a hideaway and lock and load my set of .45's. I sheathe the sword and grip the guns in my hands with security as I stealthily ascend through the system. I halt to peek around a corner and find a horde of zombies crouched over some sort of dead animal that they're tearing at. I search for another way around and then spot the pipelines that run along the ceiling. Decidedly, I take a running start for momentum, kick into the cement wall, launch myself up, grab for the rusty pipe, and haul myself up. I take my guns back out, hold them at my side with my arms spread slightly wide, and stand up carefully. I balance unsteadily as I make my way overhead through the narrow tunnel.

Then something clatters, the pipe shakes unstably and a piece breaks off and falls to the ground below, alerting the mindless cannibals. I'm screwed.

"You better get out of there," Patrick warns.

"No. I can make it."

"Not unless you have the desire to be their dessert."

"I can make it," I insist, flicking my wrist and making my avatar twist and crouch as I take a two-handed aim with one of my guns, the other staying temporarily holstered. I wait till the lead of the pack is in range and then blow his decayed head to pieces with one shot. I take my chance and leap and run along the pipes like a tightrope. Then I hit a corner. Fuck me. Pulling out both of my guns, I do a somersault down, spin, and run backwards as I send rapid-fire down the tunnel to keep them at bay. From memory, I know there is a rotten ladder somewhere down the way I'm headed that will take me up into the backyard. I just need to find it.

"Dinner…" Dad calls out to us a second later.

My heart starts to race. I pick up the pace and quickly run out of ammo. My back seems to hit a wall and I'm cornered an unarmed. Zombie approaches and I kick out, sending him flying back and knocking into the others. Another one comes at me from the side. I swing an arm around and knock him upside the head with my ammo-less handgun. I swing around again and get another one, pivot on one foot and kick out, then toss the guns aside and slip out the pair of daggers that are hidden in my boots. I slash out hurriedly and make a space to get through. Then I realize that I took the wrong turn somewhere back there and now I have to get back the way I came because this is a dead end.

A few seconds later I find myself cornered again, this time in the right tunnel though. Something hits the back of my shoulder and I spin, ready to slash a throat, when I see Dad's avatar hanging down from an opening up above. The trapdoor, yes, why did I not remember that? He outstretches a hand for me and I clasp it and let him pull me up just before Zombie snatches my ankle and tries to drag me back down. A dagger slips down and I severe the hand.

When we are in a moment of safety I turn to Patrick and drawl, "You are such a cheater."

"You're welcome," he smirks.

The game pauses and we discard the controllers to move into the dining table to find Dad and Bianca already sitting and dishing out food. Things settle in silently until…

"So, Patrick," Dad says with an underlying bite to his voice and a 'shiny happy people' smile that makes my skin itch with dread. "Tell me."

Patrick sets his fork down and glances at me unsurely before settling his unwavering gaze on Dad. "Tell you… what exactly?" he asks slowly.

"Dad," I interrupt just as his mouth opens and his elbows hit the table, "Let's just eat."

Bianca perks up in her seat and smiles across the table at me. "Where's the fun in that? We all know that this is an inquisition, why pretend we don't?"

"Because—"

"Kat," Dad cuts in, "Don't worry. I'm sure your friend here—" there's that 'shiny happy people' smile again as he reaches up and clasps a hand on Patrick's shoulder and squeezes on the pressure point— "is perfectly capable of answering a few questions. Aren't you, _Patrick_?" He turns to Patrick, who is trying his hardest to not wince, but steadily tipping sideways in his seat under the pressure.

I jump from my seat, pull Patrick from him, and set him down in my seat. I slid in between them in Patrick's chair. "Sorry," I murmur, "His turrets is acting up."

Patrick clears his throat and rubs sorely over his shoulder with a grimace. "That's alright. He just _really_ cares about you."

"I'm not sure that has anything to do with it," I mutter back to him.

"Daddy," Bianca starts smartly, "Did you know that Patrick's the one that talked Principle Holland out of expelling Kat?"

My fork drops, clattering to the china plate, and my eyes find hers. I imagine myself leaping over the table and wrapping my hands around her neck until she turns blue. Meanwhile, Dad turns bright red and his eyes bug out as his neck snaps around wildly, going from Bianca, to Patrick, to me. "It's not how it sounds," I insist firmly.

Bianca pulls back with a surprised face. "Oh, she didn't tell you about that?"

"You can forget going to that dance," I say through my teeth. She just smiles back at me.

"Kat," Dad zeroes in on me, "What is your sister talking about?"

My mind races for something horrible Bianca has done to take the focus back off of me. I come up empty. I settle for explaining. "Well, there is this psycho girl at school who has it out for me because she's obsessed with Patrick and doesn't like the fact that we're together and she has made it her mission in life to destroy me so she set this little thing up to humiliate me and it got me in trouble with Holland because she assumed that I was responsible and she was considering expelling me but after talking to Patrick instead decided to wait until this Monday to meet with you and discuss punishment options and that's all."

Dad stares me down. I don't give up. I hold steady. Finally, he pulls back and sets his hands in his lap. "Oh." And then his face returns to a semi-normal shade.

"I just forgot to tell you about the meeting. It's a conference after school so if you could be there that's fine but if you can't than that's fine too. I don't think it's very important. So if you're busy with work it is a hundred percent understandable. In fact—"

"Kat."

"Yeah?"

"I'll be there."

I swallow. "Oh." My stomach drops. "Okay." My voice is squeaky. I'm going to kill Bianca. Kill her. Dead, dead, dead. Bianca=Dead. Strangulation. Suffocation. Drowning. Run over by the Volvo. Falling off the terrace. Oops, she tripped and smashed through the upstairs window and fell out. Not my fault. Just an accident. Dead, dead, dead. "Sleep with one eye open," I mouth to her, sliding a finger across my throat in the universal signal for '_beware_!'

"Alright Patrick," Dad starts up again. He reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out a folded up piece of printer paper. He meticulously unfolds it and slides it across the table to Patrick. "Stick with this and you'll survive."

I snatch the paper away before he can get to it. I frown. "What is this?" I should've known. "Dad!" I cry. "This is beyond offensive!" I can't believe this. Why have I never seen this before?

_10 Simple Rules for Dating My Underage Daughter_

_No Physical Contact_

_No drinking, drugs, or anything that could be considered 'fun'_

_Submit to weekly monitored testing_

_No MOTORCYCLE_

_Convert to Catholic and attend Sunday Mass_

"We're not Catholic!"

Dad raises a severe finger and narrows his eyes at us. "That's beside the point."

I send him a baffled expression, "How?"

"I say so, that's how."

"You're insane."

"Also not the point…"

"I'm not going to put up with this!"

"…"

I slide the list to Patrick and sink down in my seat, effectively deflated. "Memorize this…"

"And sign on the dotted line," Dad tells him.

What? I tip in my seat and peer at the list over Patrick's shoulder. I can't even finish it. I pull back and turn to my eggplant. Bianca beams. Patrick gulps nervously and tries to conceal his amused smirk. There's laughter bubbling up in his chest. I send him a look and he strangles it. Then I turn and level Dad with my non-negotiable face. "Patrick's a moral atheist. He's not going to compromise his values because you're being ridiculous. It is important to him."

"A moral atheist?" he asks suspiciously. He has no idea what I'm talking about. I smile and nod. Patrick looks like he's about to speak and I kick him in the shin underneath the table. He shuts up. Dad peers into both of our faces, doing the lie-detector thing again. He's horrible at it. But let's pretend that he's not. "Alright, I guess we can negate that one." He holds up another finger, "But _only_ that one."

"I don't think he should be subjected to tests, either," I add, crossing my arms and raising my chin.

Dad raises his brow at me.

"I don't." I am not backing down on this. "It's one thing for me and Bianca. We are your children and we do as you say. You have that right. But Patrick—"

"Is dating my daughter," Dad cuts in. "And if he wants to continue to do so he will commit to the same conditions as you."

I glance around the table and gather my next argument. "Okay." I take a deep breath and round on him all lawyer-like. "No drug tests. That's demeaning." Like a bit of this is not demeaning, hah. "The breathalyzer only, and _only_ when we're going out together."

"I'm adding a pregnancy test to your set, Katharina."

"Dad," I cry. I sound a mixture of whiney and outraged.

"That's final."

"Fine, but you only get one interrogation per month. It is not cool of you to expend so much energy trying to scare Patrick off."

"Hey, if he can't take it he doesn't deserve you."

"Dad—"

"So," Patrick cuts in, disrupting us both, "The 'no physical contact' thing, that only applies to where you'll be aware of it, right?" He smirks at my father. Taunting is never a good idea. Dad goes red again. But he doesn't negate Patrick's point. Just for good measure, I kick him again under the table. He just smiles and nudges me. I can't help but turn my head and laugh. I feel a blush coming on. I rub my eyes and huff out a breath.

"Are we all settled up?" I wonder lightly.

Dad looks like he's about to launch into another hour-long speech, but he surprises us all by simply sighing and nodding his head at me. "Sure, Kit-Kat, we're through for now."

"Thank you," I mouth gratefully to him.

He winks and turns back to his dinner.

Bianca is still beaming.

I am still imagining every different way to kill her.

Patrick is still smirking, utterly amused.

The eggplant parmesan and fettuccini soaked in Dad's special sauce is delicious.

The evening seems… really nice.

I should've foreseen something coming along to fuck it up.

Yet I didn't. Not until there was a hurried knock on the front door. I didn't think anything of it at first. Bianca gets up silently and goes to answer. There are muffled voices: Bianca's and a familiar male's. Then she comes back into the room with a worried look on her sparkly little face.

"Kat," she says whisperingly, nodding her head towards the foyer.

I frown at her but slip without word out of my chair and head for the door. This can't be good.

I open the door and… wham. "Hey Kate…"

I jump over the threshold and slam the door shut behind me with wide eyes. "Dean, what the hell are you doing here? Do you have any idea what my father will do if he sees you?"

Dean's fair brow furrows and he shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans and rocks back on his heels. The move reminds me see eerily of Patrick that I almost faint. Funny, I remember Dean doing it all the time, so why when I met Patrick that it didn't remind me of Dean—I have no idea. He's wearing a dark dress-shirt that's left un-tucked and buttoned up haphazardly. It's rumpled. And his hair is a mussed mess. There is a faint bruise along his jaw, and a dark circle around his right eye. His lip is better than Patrick's, but I'm sure his ribs are adorned with the same rainbow as Patrick's. It just pisses me off.

He looks… he looks like Dean. There's no other word for it.

He looks confused. "I thought your dad always liked me."

"_Liked_ being the operative word," I retort sharply. "But I had to tell him something to get him off my back when I stopped seeing you. And I sure as hell wasn't about to tell a story that made you look good."

"Oh." He nods solemnly. "Totally understandable," he assures me.

I sneer at him, "I'm glad you understand." _Really, I don't give a fuck_ is what my face says. Folding my arms and stepping further out on the porch, I decide while he's here I might as well get a straight answer from him. I promised myself I would let it drop with Patrick, not wanting to risk incurring another fight. But I have no such qualms with Dean, and he won't have any hesitation telling it to me straight. "You gonna tell me what happened between you and Patrick?"

He raises his brow at me and quirks up one side of his mouth. "He didn't tell you." Great, now he's feeling superior. Let's just squash that ASAP. "Well, I was at that bar down on the eastside."

"Live Bait," I nod.

"Yeah, and I see that girl from the party—you know, the one where you went wild and gave everyone a show—standing by the jukebox."

"Who?" Megan 2.0? Oh yeah. "Evelyn."

"Yeah," he waves it off, "Anyway, when I saw her, she was alone, I swear. But when I went up to her this guy came out of nowhere. Turns out," he smirks at me, "She had a boyfriend. And that boyfriend just so happened to be your boy's best friend. They were all there playing pool. And one thing led to another and you know how this shit happens, Kate."

"Yeah, I know," I sigh. Patrick must've just been itching to get a piece of him because it didn't seem like a situation that really called for it. But these things escalate pretty easily when we're dealing with guys like Dean and Patrick. Especially with extenuating circumstances.

"So am I forgiven for that? 'Cause, you know he took the first swing. I was just defending myself," he insists, holding up his hands to me.

_Forgiven_… that's a strange word to use. Why would I forgive him? Why would it even matter to me? I'd forgive Patrick. Patrick's the one that matters. There's no reason to forgive or not forgive Dean. He's not my concern. But is that why he came back? Does he want my forgiveness? I'm tempted to ask him. But I don't.

I sigh and roll my eyes out to the distance where the sun is just starting to set. "What are you doing here, Dean? We're in the middle of dinner."

"I've been trying to talk to you for weeks now." He runs a hand through his hair and turns to follow me as I step down to the bottom of the porch and take a seat on the stairs, leaning my arms on my knees. "Something or other always seems to screw it up."

"So talk," I tell him. He sits down beside me and mimics my position. He doesn't speak. I shake my head. "You don't even know what you want to say to me."

"Well," he huffs, "I've kinda been preoccupied with trying to get the _option_ to talk to you. Now that I've got my chance…I'm kind of blanking."

"Then come back when you sort it out," I snap, moving to get up. He grabs my arm and forces me back down.

"This isn't easy for me, Kate. I'm really trying here. You could give me a little patience."

"I could. But there's no reason I would."

"For old times sake? We were friends before we dated," he points out meaningfully.

I snort and shake my head, fixate my gaze on a garden down the street.

"You were the only thing in my life that ever kept me sane, Kate. I miss you. That's why I came here looking for you. I know it was stupid. But I just didn't have anywhere else to go."

"You were supposed to go home if you couldn't cut it at college," I snap meanly.

"But with you gone there's nothing there for me. It took me too long to realize it. But once I did, I had to come see you. And now my dad is asking me to come live with him and Kelly."

"I thought you said her name was Courtney."

He snaps his fingers and apprehension crosses his expression. "Courtney, that's it."

"You're un-freaking-believable."

"How am I supposed to remember? I've never even met the woman. And she's only been around for a month. And she's only a few years older than me. And she talks like a—"

"What's your point?" I cut in sharply. My non-existent patience is running thin.

"My point is that ever since I screwed up with you life has sucked."

"And what am I supposed to do about that?"

He twists to face me and he's suddenly looking a little manic with excitement. "Come back with me."

… What? "My fucking God," I breathe out. I'm astounded. I'm freaking blown away. "Come back with me?" I repeat. "Come back with me!" I smack him, hard and fast, before I even realize what I intend to do. And then I stand up and stomp up the stairs and back to the door. My hand's on the handle when I spin back to him in a rage. "You know! The minute I begin to forget what an unbelievably self-centered little child you are you say something like that and so excellently remind me!" I try to go in, but he grabs my arm and pulls me back. The door slams shut again.

"Kate, come on, don't flip out on me again. I'm just trying to talk to you." He looks frazzled. He looks aggravated. That pisses me off.

I rip out of his grasp and step around him to get him away from the door. I'm at the edge of the porch when I shove him down a step. I follow and shove him again, and again, and again, until he's off my porch completely and standing in the front yard, looking like he's such a great guy for putting up so patiently with such a lunatic like me.

My fingers curl into a fist, my arm swings, my knuckles collide with his nose. His head snaps back and blood spurts from his nose, dripping down over his lips. He wipes his face and glowers at me. My thumb feels broken. It wasn't in the right place. I fisted wrong. Damn it.

"Kate," he steps towards me again, "You psycho, would you just get a grip and listen."

I bring my arms up again, only to find myself bound inside the circle of Patrick's arms, my back pressed to his chest as he forces me to step backwards, towards the porch and away from Dean.

"Get outta here," he growls over my shoulder at Dean.

Dean lets out an aggravated huff and narrows his eyes at Patrick, exasperated, even as his hand still clutches his nose. "Stay out of this."

I struggle, try to break free of Patrick and lunge for Dean, but I'm stuck.

"Kate—"

"Don't talk to her."

Patrick forces me up the first few steps, still dragging me backwards, when the front door slams shut and rattles the glass inside it. I turn to look over my shoulder and around Patrick to see Dad stepping out to the edge of the porch. Bianca hovers back behind him, her head held low and her regretful eyes on me. My stomach drops. My throat swells closed. This can't be good.

Dad looks more severe and detached than I've ever seen him before. His eyes are on Dean, intense and harsh and unforgiving. It's a '_don't fuck with me'_ look that I could've never imagined him possessing. "Dean Moss you get off my property right now and never come near either of my daughters again." He pauses then adds dangerously, "Or I'll have you arrested for statutory rape."

My knees weaken and Patrick's arms tighten securely to support me. Dean looks just as stunned as me, but he soon comes to the same realization that I do and without a word spins and retreats. His Chevy is parked at the curb, awaiting him. I don't dare breathe until he is driving away. Then I sag against Patrick and force my head to turn in slow-motion. My eyes roll up to Dad's face and I get the oddest sensation of wanting to cry. He's staring into a void, refusing to look at me, and his fists are clenched at his sides.

I swallow past the lump in my throat and try pathetically. "Dad—"

He doesn't look at me. He ignores me. He turns and he walks slowly back inside. The door slams shut behind him. He slammed the door on me. He… My gaze goes to Bianca. I harden.

She notices and tries to step to me. "Kat, I'm sorry; I didn't know what else to do."

"How about mind your own Goddamn business." My voice is about as punishing as my harsh gaze and she shrinks back from it with apologetic tears leaking from her eyes. Her shoulders are hunched and her face is downturned. I start to feel pity. Then guilt. But I'm too upset to give into it. I clutch at Patrick's arm and try to shake him off. It doesn't get anything done until he lets me go, dropping his arms to his sides and letting me step away. I lower myself down to sit on a step. I feel like I'm going to throw up. It's a toss up between that and crying. I lower my head between my knees and breathe deep. I feel the tears as the make wet tracks down my face. I screw my eyes shut to try to stop them, but it just makes the rest in my eyes well over faster.

"Kat—" Bianca tries in a small voice, her hand on my back.

I shrug her off and sit up. "Go away, Bianca." I swipe a hand over my face to clean it off and suck in a shuddery breath.

"But Kat—"

"Just go," I snap angrily.

She stands there for a minute, staring at me, before she sighs and walks back inside, telling no one in particular that she's going to go talk to Dad. _Good luck_.

I sit for awhile. The tears drain calmly and I let them fall until I feel alright. The way Dad looked at me, the way he didn't look at me, the look on his face: I can't get it out of my head. I keep imagining it. I can't believe Bianca told him. I can't believe he knows. I can't believe he… I don't like the way this feels. I'm afraid. I'm scared of my own father. This is ridiculous. But I am scared. I'm scared of what will happen when I walk into that house. What will he do to me? I don't care. That's not what I'm worried about. I wonder what he'll say to me. I wonder if he'll even look at me. Or will he just keep giving me the silent treatment? That can only last so long. But really… I'm scared to find out. It's stupid and irrational and overdramatic. But I am.

Patrick sits down beside me. Our sides brush against each other almost imperceptibly, but he doesn't touch me. He doesn't talk to me. He just watches me.

I wipe a hand over my cheek again and sniffle. "Get me outta here, will ya?"

He studies my face for a long moment, trying to see through me, then nods and rises to his feet. He shrugs off his jacket and tosses it over my shoulders before walking off down the sidewalk. I follow to find that he actually parked in the driveway this time and not around the block. We ride off without another word and I press my face into the space between his shoulder blades and breathe deep and soft. I ride with my eyes closed and my arms wrapped around his waist. I trust him. I'm not worried. I also determine to shut off my mind and move on autopilot. That's exactly what I do.

He takes me back to his place. We still haven't spoken yet as we walk up the stairwell. I wait till we get into his corridor, and he starts screwing with the locks, to stop him. I place my hand on his arm and he freezes, turns his head, and stares.

"I'm sorry."

Patrick shakes his head and leans a shoulder against the door. "Don't be."

"I shouldn't have—"

He cuts me off when he darts down and presses his mouth to mine. Not really a kiss, just more of a touch. When he pulls back, he hovers centimeters from me, and locks eyes. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asks me with a doubtful quirk of his eyebrow.

I close my eyes, sway on my feet towards him, and shake my head. "Definitely not…"

"Then don't." His hand curves over the nape of my neck, fingers delving into hair, and pull me up to him. He breathes peppermint and parmesan into my mouth and I inhale sandalwood through my nose. He tilts us and presses me into the door. His tongue slips inside me and his thumb dugs softly into my jaw as he holds me. His other palm is planted solidly on the door beside my head. I'm not trapped; I'm just… enveloped.

We stay this way for a long while, longer than I keep track of, until the sky is dark outside and a damp chill begins to run through the hallway. We pull apart with reluctance and I slide to the side and allow him to finish unlocking the door and pulling me inside. I stretch up on my toes to pull him to me again when something clatters noisily from across the room.

"Dude," someone says.

I pull away and turn my head against him, his arm round my waist keeping me against him, and see Mick lounging on the leather sofa with Evelyn sprawled on top of him. It's obvious that they're deep into a serious make-out session. They don't look happy with the interruption.

Neither does Patrick.

"Mick, what are you doing here?"

"You said you'd be gone," Mick shrugs. Evelyn moves to disentangle herself from him and slide down to her own spot on the sofa, wiping at her smudged lipstick.

"Not all night," Patrick snaps, his hand digging into my side unconsciously. "And that doesn't give you permission to just camp out and turn my place into a bordello." Then he glances over his shoulder, runs a hand through his messy curls, and sighs. "I never should have given you that spare," he grumbles unhappily. His eyes come down to me and he leans into my ear. "I'm sorry." He holds me tighter as if to stop me from running away.

I force a smile and a short shake of my head. "Whatever…"

Mick looks completely innocent, clueless even. "What? Do you want us to leave?"

Evelyn smacks a hand upside the back of his head and fixes her skirt. "Duh," she mutters.

"Don't you have anywhere else to go?" Patrick asks impatiently.

"Not really," he says at the same time Evelyn insists, "Of course we do."

"Glad that's settled," Patrick grumbles.

"You don't mind if we just—"

"No," Evelyn cuts Mick off and comes to her feet. "Let's go." She hauls him up to his feet, ignoring his reluctant complaining, and offers me an apologetic look as she drags him across the apartment and out the door.

"See ya later, man!" Mick shouts back to Patrick before the door slams shut in his face.

We're plunged into silence. It's awkward for a second. And then…

"I'm sorry," he says, looking down at me with a concern furrowed brow.

"Don't be," I mimic him and slip from his grasp, walking farther into the room.

Patrick turns to deadbolt the door and then leans his back against it and watches me as I explore mindlessly. "You want something?" he asks uneasily.

I shake my head and continue to aimlessly walk around, trailing my fingers over everything, covering my hand in dust. Then I stop to slip off my shoes. I'm aching. I frown and turn to him. "Actually…"

He pushes away from the door and raises his brow. "Yes?"

"Could I get something to wear?" I ask, flicking at my button-up blouse and jeans. I'm not comfortable, at all. I want to just lie in bed and relax. Patrick's bed is looking overly welcoming to me right now.

"Sure," he nods and brushes past me to get to his dresser. He pulls out a rocker-T-shirt with a Live Bait logo on it. It's black and faded and looks like its years old and has gotten a lot of good use out of it. Lingering scents of cigarette smoke and whiskey overtake the sandalwood, but it's all so ginger that it doesn't bother me. Then he tosses a pair of plaid boxers to me with a smirk. He leans his elbows back on the dresser and crosses his ankles to watch as I strip down and change. It doesn't even bother me that much. He waits until I'm looking down, hair falling over my shoulders and into my face, and rolling up the waistband of the boxers so they don't sag. And then he says, "Told you."

I look up and cock a brow.

He nods towards the boxers. "You look much better in mine," he drawls, then glides across the distance to let his hands crawl over my hips, sliding around me, to clasp together at the dip in my back.

I stretch on my toes to kiss him, sucking in a deep breath, and twine my arms around his neck. I gasp when he hooks an arm under my knees and sweeps me off of my feet. He carries me to the bed and drops me down. Before he can do whatever it is he is thinking of doing, I twist and crawl up the bed on my hands and knees, then scoot underneath the comforter and settle myself in with a content sigh.

Patrick stands there at the foot of the bed, staring at me, his head cocked to the side in thought. Then he smiles softly and climbs in beside me with a shake of his head. I burrow into him and close my eyes, breathing him in.

"I'm just going to ask—Are you okay?" His chest rumbles softly against me.

I smile against the warm skin of the crook of his neck and shake my head. But I say, "Right now? Yes."

"Okay then."

*

In the morning, I open the door and walk inside with dread. I find Bianca in her room, still upset about last night. She apologizes, I accept. She says Dad has gone into work early. I sigh with relief and put off my fear for later of a confrontation with him for later.

I drive Bianca to school, meet up with Patrick, we spend the day like usual and I bite my tongue through all the snide comments and sniggering. I only use my taser once. I get detention on top of the detention I'm already serving and get reminded of the expulsion hanging over my head.

"Monday, Miss Stratford, Monday," Holland warns ominously. The end of detention rolls by and I go out to meet Bianca and drive her home. I get home to find Dad's car still gone. Not good. Then I get a text from Patrick: _C U 8_. I can't help but smile. Why I am slightly excited to go to a lame school dance is beyond my comprehension.

I hurry to get my Trig homework finished while Bianca spends two hours getting ready. Dad's still not home. I'm starting to really worry. No way would he miss this. No way would he not be here to clear Bianca's wardrobe, to warn us, to send us off, to scare our dates, to pace anxiously and wait for our return, to make us pee in cups and blow in breathalyzers. Why is he not home yet?

"Kat, what are you doing!" Bianca screeches from my doorway. I turn and my mouth drops. She's wearing a taffeta cotton-candy dress with ruffles all around and a huge satin bow in the back. The hem barely reaches her lower thighs and her golden-honey hair is curled into spirals and pulled up into a French twist. Her lips are way too glossy and her eyes are painted in sky blue. Her flimsy sandals are the same shade of pink as her dress and look like they'll slip off at any second. She's very… _Bianca_. But she looks beautiful. I smile warmly. I'm feeling… sisterly, I guess.

"You look awesome," I tell her.

The irritated look on her face flips instantly to flattery as she blushes and looks down at herself. She does a little twirl and holds her arms out wide. "You think?"

"I know."

"I look like a princess!" she squeals. And there's the Bianca I know. Then the switch flips again and she's back to hands-on-hips frowning at me. "Why aren't you even dressed yet? Patrick will be here in a few minutes."

"And that's exactly one minute less than it will take to put a dress on," I tell her, spinning in my seat and leaning back over my book. One equation left, that's all I've got, and then I'm through.

I tell her that and she groans. "Oh Kat, you're doing _math_!"

"I have to. I got in trouble today because I took off and completely forgot about it last night."

"Yeah," she shuffles her feet awkwardly then brushes it off, "Well, come on. Makeover time…"

"No." I go ignored as she snatches my arm and yanks me away from my desk. She pulls me into her room and she pushes me into a seat at her vanity. Then she disappears and comes back with the cobalt evening dress she bought for me. It's a halter with an empire waist and a flair skirting towards the knee-length hem. I have to say, Bianca really knows me.

She tosses the dress to me and orders me to put it on. As I do so, she goes about dragging out her big makeup chest and plugging in her curling iron. Oh great.

I'm sitting at Bianca's vanity in my dress and peep-toed heels with my hair pulled into a high ponytail and a lock of hair from it rolled up in a curling iron that I'm holding up and making my arm ache while Bianca pokes me in the eye with eyeliner when the doorbell rings.

"Ooh, don't move—" she shakes the eyeliner pencil at me— "I'll go get him and you just keep that iron up." She runs out of the room, waddling in her heels and dress, and leaves me here feeling like a seamstress's pincushion.

"Whoa, what twilight zone have I walked into?" Patrick whistles from the doorway. I turn to glare at him. I guess my face says it all because he laughs and shakes his head, sending me a sympathetic look. "You look beautiful."

"Bite me."

Bianca comes running in and slams into his back before toppling over. She's out of breath. "I'm sorry Kat," she tells me while he helps her back up. "I tried to stop him, but he wouldn't listen. He's very strong," she says, amazed.

I frown at her like she's talking nonsense. "What were you trying to keep him from doing?"

"Coming upstairs, duh; now's it's ruined because he's seen you," she huffs, crossing over to me and unrolling my hair from the iron.

"B, it's not our wedding day. He's allowed to see me."

"No, you're missing the point. Now you can't have your descent."

"My what?" I frown. I'm befuddled and irritated. I jerk my head away from her when she comes back at me with the iron. "And you're done with that. Leave me alone."

"No, you're not. I'm in the middle—come back here!" She somehow manages to catch the end of my hair and pull me back into the chair. She's rolling up another strand before I can try for another escape. "And your descent is that slow-motion scene of you walking down the stairs, going slow enough to give him time to realize he's falling in love with you." She tries to make a gesture with her arms and rips my hair.

"Ow, damn it!"

"Sorry. Anyways…" She goes on to blither some more.

I narrow my eyes at Patrick as he stuffs his hands in his pockets and leans against the wall. 'You're no help,' my eyes yell at him. He's in an all black suit and is blazer-less. It should remind me of a lame attempt at Johnny Cash. But he somehow manages to pull it off. His curly hair has fallen into his eyes. I want to brush it back. But I can't, because I'm still being held hostage.

"Dad still not home?" I ask quietly.

Bianca shuts up and drops the iron from my hair. "No."

"That's weird. You don't think something happened to him, do you?"

"Um, no, he left a message on the machine. He's taking another shift."

"But he's already done a double."

"I know."

Silence exudes the room.

I take the opportunity to slip from her torture-chair and slink out of her reach. I grab Patrick's wrist and pull him with me. I pause in the doorway and turn back to find Bianca admiring herself in the vanity mirror. There's a goofy smile on her face. "Are you going to ride with us?"

"No." She shakes her head and a few stray spirals fall out of her twist. "Cameron is picking me up."

"Okay. I'll see you there."

As we go down the stairs Patrick leans into me and whispers, "Is everything alright?"

"Fine," I smile brightly up at him. I'm such a liar. He sees this. He tells me this with his eyes. Then we go. We take my car. We don't really talk. It's nice anyways.

The gymnasium looks like every prom scene in every teen-movie I've ever seen. I try not to gag at the sight. The music is horrible. The dancing is horrendous. The décor is ugly as all get out. Yet the night doesn't seem all that bad. Patrick and I find ourselves leaning against the vendor's shack and watching the horror show in silence. Bianca and Cameron arrive a little while later and she looks sickeningly happy as they trample out to the floor and proceed to do the dorkiest dance moves I've ever seen. Though Bianca never was a very graceful dancer, I had for some reason expected more from her. But they look like they're having fun, so whatever.

"Wow…" Patrick murmurs with disdain. "And I thought school was painful in the daytime."

"No. This is nauseating," I say. "My _shoes_ are painful."

He turns to me and his eyes go down. He smirks. "Yeah, but they make your legs look awesome."

"Shut up," I grimace.

"Think you can manage a dance in those things?" he asks me archly, a dare in his eyes and mocking in his grin.

I shoot him a quick scowl then take the hand he offers. He leads me out to the floor the spins me around until I'm nearly pressed against him. He places a hand at the small of my back and I awkwardly hold his shoulders. Slow dancing to flimsy pop is not exactly ideal.

"I don't think I know how to move to this junk," I admit after stepping on his foot.

"That's alright," he drawls, leaning down to me, "I came prepared." Slipping a hand into his trouser pocket, Patrick pulls out his IPod. His thumb scrolls over it deftly before he drops it back into his pocket. He takes the earphones and slips one into my ear, taking the other for himself. Stevie Wonder's _Isn't She Lovely_ caresses my hearing.

I smile so brightly I'm sure I'm flushed. I bite my lip to control it and let him take my hand and spin me out carefully, twirling me, and then pulling me back to him. We step to the side in unison and then we fall into a standard waltz. One-two-three step in small circles.

'_Isn't she lovely? Isn't she wonderful? Isn't she precious? Less than one minute old…'_

His arm around me tightens, pulling me closer, as he arches forward to dip me. My knee crooks and my leg hooks behind his. I smile and tip my head upside, letting my hair tumble down. He snaps me back up and twirls me once more before the song ends. Gliding me closer, he trails a hand up my cheek and slips the earphone from my ear. Then he stuffs the wires back into his pocket as he darts down to kiss me.

"Had enough yet?" he breathes against my lips.

I nod and smile. "Most definitely all I can take."

His hand slips into mine and he drags me from the room. Out in the hallway he stops to turn to me and say, "Take off your shoes."

"What?" I laugh.

"Just take 'em off."

I do as commanded and slip the heels off my aching feet. He takes them and dangles them from his finger before yanking on our joined hands and making me run down the hall to keep up with him. The linoleum is freezing cold against my bare feet and it feels great after having subjected them to such torture. I'm on a roll, and as he drags me into the stairwell, heading upwards, I pull my hair out of the tight ponytail that has been giving me a headache. My curly hair falls free and messy. I'm sure it looks ridiculous, but I really don't care. And I have a feeling that he doesn't either.

Patrick leads me out to the rooftop. Of course, the one place we could get into the most trouble for being during the dance… or ever. But the breeze picks up and rustles through my dress and blows strands of hair into my face. It feels sweet against my overheated skin. I must be blushing because my face feels hot.

"I want to dance with you in that dress," he turns to me and says, smiling widely. There's something excitably about his mood tonight that makes me believe he's feeling… airy. Whatever it is, he's beaming instead of broody and I surprisingly like the change.

I look at him strangely and laugh. "Isn't that what we just did?"

He shakes his head and snatches my hand to tug me to him. "Not properly," he insists.

"I'm shocked. You're looking for the opposite of _improper_? Are you feeling alright?" I place a hand to his forehead and he laughs. Taking my hand, he sets it on his shoulder, and then pulls out the IPod again. He sets it on the edge of the stone balustrade that goes round the rooftop. He switches it to speaker and sets it to play. Then he tugs me out to the center and puts his hands on my hips. I pull them up a little higher so that he's holding my waist.

Suddenly the music starts up and I'm frozen.

I recognize the beat instantly. Mom's favorite of all time: _That Thing You Do_ by The Wonders.

"You've got to be kidding me," I burst out laughing uncontrollably. He spins me and tugs. I stumble and fall into him. He spins me out again before I can get my balance back, and before I know what's going on I'm seeing the world upside down and he's holding me there. He whips me back up and spins me again. I get into it easily, laughing the whole time and tripping occasionally because of it.

He starts singing along softly, smiling at me as we twirl and twist. I bite my lip to try to stop laughing. It doesn't work. But I start to go along with the words as well. "_I try and try to forget you, girl… but it's just so hard to do… every time you're doing that thing you do_…"

I'm out of breath, but that doesn't stop us. As the concussion slows and the song begins it's descent into silence, he pulls me into him. My back arches as he slants towards me and we press together. He rests his forehead against mine as we catch our breaths.

"You're glowing," he tells me.

"Damn… I am, aren't I?" I can feel it. I can't stop smiling. I feel light and wonderful.

We let the music run through the playlist as we sit on the balustrade and look out over the distance. The sky is littered with bright stars and the hue looks like thunderclouds. I can feel a storm coming.

Sure enough, a clap of thunder rolls overhead a few minutes later.

"We better get going," I sigh, twisting and hopping off the edge.

He catches my hand as I walk away and spins me. I find myself trapped in a breathless kiss before I'm aware. When he pulls away it's raining. I'm all wet. I glare at him and back away towards the door. He laughs and follows after me. His curls are drenched and sticking to his forehead, in his eyes irritatingly, and his suit is ruined. Much like my dress…

We get back to the gym and find that the party has officially begun to die down. Bianca is camped out at a table with her friend Dawn. Cameron is hovering behind her looking disheartened. She's too busy gossiping excitedly with Dawn to notice him.

"Wanna get outta here?" Patrick asks from behind me.

"Most definitely," I mutter lousily.

"Alright, meet me outside. I gotta take a leak."

"Good to know."

And then he's gone. I go to collect Bianca and let her know we're leaving. She promises to be home by 11. I shrug and walk away. I really don't care, and the oblivious way she's treating Cameron is pissing me off. I walk down the halls and push through the door to the front parking lot. I stand under the awning and wait for Patrick as it downpours.

"Look at you, all dressed up like a prom-queen," a gravelly voice calls mockingly from behind me. I turn to see Dean crossing the lot, soaking wet, and smirking at me with sparkling eyes. I glower at him as he approaches. Just the perfect thing I need right now. "I thought you abhorred this dog-and-pony show?"

"I do."

"Which is why I was so surprised to learn that this is where I would find you," he tells me.

"And who did you learn this from?" I ask archly, folding my arms and cocking my brow at him.

"Your boy's buddy… Mick, I think he said. Bumped into him at Live Bait and when I heard that Katharina Stratford was going to a _dance_, I just had to risk life and limb to see it with my own eyes."

"Well, now you've seen it." I make a 'shoo' motion at him. "Now run along before I remember where I put my taser."

"One dance, just one, and I won't bother you ever again," he promises, holding his hands together in a mock-prayer.

"Like I'd believe that," I scoff.

"You have no reason not to. Have I ever gone back on my word?"

I think for a long minute. I think harder. No. He's never gone back on his word. And if I dance with him… he'll go away. He won't be causing anymore trouble. It's an easy decision. I roll my eyes and huff at him, holding out my hand. "Let's get this over with already."

"You're such a sweet-talker," he grins, clasps my hand in his own, and pulls me to him. He's even wetter than I am, because his clothes are heavier and hold more water. His honey hair is drenched and dripping droplets of rain down his face. His cheeks are flushed and his lips are vivid. He's out of breath. The stench of cigarette smoke wafts from him, even through the rain. He presses me to him and takes a step. Then we're moving. We're dancing. I stare stubbornly at the parking lot. He starts to hum softly. I forgot how smooth his voice is. "_You give your hand to me. And then you say hello. And I can hardly speak. My heart is beating so. And anyone can tell… You think you know me well… Well, you don't know me at all. No. You don't know the one… who dreams of you at night… and longs to kiss your lips… and longs to hold you tight…_"

I snap. Tugging out of his grasp, I step back. "Alright, enough…"

He holds up his hands and smiles sadly. "I'm sorry." His arms lower and I suddenly find myself back to circling with him, slow and smooth. "I am sorry, you know," he goes on, whispering into me.

I turn away from him and stare at nothing with a stubborn jaw. "For what?"

"For everything," he says. "For the way I treated you. For everything I've done wrong. I'm an idiot. We both know that. But I don't think you know how much I really regret what happened between us."

"Regret…?"

"Every damn day," he whispers fiercely, tightening his arms around me. "I did love you… I've never given you a reason to believe me. But I did. I do…"

To quote someone infamous, my heart is beating so. I'm suddenly very foggy, very confused. But not confused enough to let him go on holding me like this, not talking like that, not while the atmosphere between us has suddenly gone and changed. He's managed to throw me off balance. I remove myself carefully from his arms and take a step to distance us. "For some reason, I believe that you do regret it. But you need to understand that that doesn't matter."

"But it does."

"No." I shake my head and hold firm. "It doesn't. All things aside, Dean, even if I were to be able to forgive you… There would never be anything more between us. I'm done with that. I've been done with that a very long time now. I've moved on and all I want from you is for you to do the same. Figure yourself out, become the man you've always wished you were, and find some place you feel like you belong. But it's not here… not with me."

Dean sags against the wall of the school building and pushes his sopping hair back from his eyes. "You talk nice, Kate. But you're the only one I've ever… connected with. You're the only person that ever made me feel like I belonged somewhere."

"But you don't still feel that way."

"I do."

"No." I shake my head again, step closer, feeling more solid, less confused. I feel closure on the horizon. "You don't. You think you do, you want to, but you don't, not really. There will always be a connection between us, Dean. We just… clicked. But that doesn't mean anything at all anymore. We're done. I'm done. And if you ever really did care about me, if you really did regret how much you've hurt me in the past, then you would go home and leave me be."

He looks down and shoves his hands into his pockets. He looks… lost. I remember this Dean. This is the real Dean. This is the Dean that would get me into trouble. One look and I would melt and forget every jackass-thing he'd done to me.

Now… it inspires worry, care, but it doesn't make me want to melt.

He sighs heavily and runs a hand over his face. "My life is really empty, Kate."

"We're all alone, Dean. If you feel empty, you need to find a purpose. But you need to figure this out on your own. Go to live with your dad. You never know, he may surprise you. If you try hard enough…"

He shakes his head at me but still won't look up from the ground. "I thought it would be so easy. You always fixed everything. I thought if I just came here and got you to forgive me then life would work out, get to feeling alright again."

"Not that easy…"

"Yeah," he smiles grimly, "I'm figuring that out."

"Are you done harassing me?" I ask him, moving closer and touching his arm in hesitation.

He looks up and cracks a forced grin. "I think so. I'm gonna try not to bother you anymore, Kate. It's just…"

"I know."

"Yeah, of course you do," he sighs. Pushing away from the wall, Dean puts his arms around me and pulls me into a hug. I return it hesitantly. Before he can pull away though we're interrupted when the door bursts open and the sound of a struggle resonates around us.

"Hey Man, chill. It's not the end of the world."

I pull away from Dean to see Patrick frowning at me. His hands are cuffed behind his back and he's being hauled out of the school by two off-duty cops, along with another guy who shares my table in History. "What's going on?" I hurry to trail after them as they drag Patrick and what's-his-name across the parking lot and towards the squad car.

Patrick looks away, shakes his head, and becomes stoic. "This idiot was smoking out in the Men's Room."

That's all he says before the shove him into the back of the car with Keith… Keith, that's the idiot's name! They drive off. I stand there in the pouring rain and stare after them like a moron.

What the hell?

Patrick was just arrested… again. Damn it.

*

I pull up to the police station and park. Walking in, I get the strongest sense of déjà vu. Strange, huh? Yeah right. Probably because I was just here in this exact position not even two nights ago.

Only then the lobby was empty. Now I run into none other than Nina Grosse sitting on the bench against the wall. I roll my eyes with a groan. Just great… this is exactly what I needed to make tonight absolutely freaking perfect. I strut past her with purpose and tap on the bell at the front desk. The same paunchy middle-aged guy comes to greet me.

"Back so soon?" he smiles.

"Afraid so... Can you tell me what's going on back there with Patrick Verona?"

He looks to his computer and frowns. I tap my fingers impatiently and then he turns back to me. I wait. He smiles then turns to shout over his shoulder, "Hey Jack!"

The young guy from lock-up peeks out and goes, "Hm?"

"Verona?"

"No charges were brought up," he tells me. "Your boyfriend's lucky. His friend vouched for his story. He's free to go."

"Then where is he?" I ask.

Jack points a thumb over his shoulder towards the cells. _Great_. They just love keeping him locked up for as long as they can manage it.

"Viper, you worthless bastard!" Nina screeches angrily, coming to her feet and stomping over to meet a gangly punker that walks out of the lock-up beside Jack. He's covered in tattoos and piercings and his hair is dyed black and blue. His clothes are full of holes and stains and loose threads. He's quite a picture, fits in well with his environment.

Her boyfriend?—I wonder.

Patrick walks out after him, scratching his head, mussing his hair, and stuffing a hand into his pocket uncomfortably. He walks by Nina and she drops her gaze, suddenly deflating until he's more than five feet away. He goes on and walks right past me without even stopping. I turn and follow him out of the station with a disgruntled frown. I know what this is about. But still…

"So, if Nina's got a boyfriend, what's she doing playing obsessive stalker with you?" I ask, walking along side him as he heads for my car.

"Viper's her brother," he shrugs stoically.

"Oh." I wait until he's staring hard at me from over the roof of the Volvo to speak again. "I handled Dean while you were getting hauled off in handcuffs. He won't be bothering me anymore."

"Good." His voice is cold. His eyes are hard. Damn him, what's his problem?

"Damn you," I huff, "What's your problem?"

"Nothing."

"Should I tell you I'm in love with you, or is that still something you don't want to hear?"

It just pops out. I'm irritated. I say stupid things when I'm irritated. But it seems to work. He softens wonderfully and gets this loving and slightly guilty look in his dark eyes. He leans his arms on the roof and slants towards me.

"No. It's good to hear," he tells me.


	13. World Spins Madly On

**"****World Spins Madly On"**

Breakfast this morning, to say the least, is the most painful thing I've ever experienced.

Dad still won't even look at me, never mind speak. He barely manages mono-syllabic grunts when Bianca tries to talk to him. His eyes are on his plate. He's not even mad. He's just…

"Dad," I sigh, dropping my fork and shoving my plate of scrambled eggs away from me. He continues meticulously buttering his toast as if he hasn't heard me. "Dad, come on, you can't go on pretending I don't exist forever. You have to forgive me."

His hands freeze. He slowly sets his toast and knife down on the plate and upturns his face. "Do I?"

"I don't know exactly what Bianca told you. But—"

"Your sister didn't tell me anything," he says stiffly. "Other than that that story of why you broke up with Dean was nothing but fabrication and the truth was that he coerced you into sleeping with him and then failed to hold up his end of the commitment." He's looking at his toast again.

"That's not exactly—" I stop myself, then go on carefully— "It was a long time ago, Dad. I made a lot of mistakes. You knew that. I'm sorry I wasn't straight with you from the start… but I was… ashamed." I duck my head and try to keep my voice from cracking. A quiet snivel escapes me and when I look up I find him looking at me. "I just didn't…"

"Didn't what, Kat?" Dad leans unconsciously towards me and Bianca shrinks back, trying to slink out unnoticed.

I wipe a hand over my nose and breathe in deep. "I didn't want you to look at me like how you've been looking at me for the past 2 days," I tell him sadly. Surprisingly, it's not an act. I really can't stand the way he's been acting towards me ever since he found out. It never occurred to me that was why I had been so insistent about keeping him in the dark as to my real life. But now I see, so obviously, that I really am a Daddy's girl. "I didn't want to disappoint you."

And there you go. Dad melts. His face crumples up and he looks like he's about to cry. "Kit-Kat, I am disappointed. But I'll get over it. You're my daughter and I love you more than anything in this world."

"Ahem," Bianca clears her throat from the doorway, affronted.

"I love you both equally," he corrects amicably.

"I'm sorry about everything, Dad. And I don't want you to hate me when you go to that conference Monday. I don't think I can stand it if you're disgusted with me."

He pulls back with a strange expression, guarded and held-back. I start to fret. Maybe I shouldn't have… but I had to warn him beforehand. I don't want Dad having a heart attack. He rests his elbow son the table and watches me carefully. "Kat," he begins warily, "What is it?"

"What went down between me and Dean was a mistake, something I regret and wish I could take back," I state strongly with a straight spine and squared shoulders. Too late to back out now, I'm resolute. "And though I really wish I never have to disappoint you or disobey your rules, because I do respect you Dad… Patrick and I have grown very close in a very short amount of time. I… I love him. And beyond that… I… I mean, we… We mutually decided to… to share an intimate relationship… even though… well, you see… and I didn't… but then this whole thing kinda got… and I didn't… but Dad I just… Dad, I—don't look at me like that, Dad. I… Dad? Dad, are you alright? Bianca! Call 911!"

I jump from my chair and rush around the table to Dad's side. He's looking abnormally pale and… catatonic. Maybe he's having a stroke.

"Oh God," Bianca yelps, running back into the kitchen with the phone in her hand. She bends down beside him and peers frantically into his face. "What did you do to him?!"

"I-I-I didn't mean to!"

"Dad, it's Bianca, you're loyal daughter. Can you hear me? Dad, are you okay? How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Forget that," I swat her hand away from his face, "Call an ambulance."

"No." He speaks. I nearly faint with relief. He blinks hazily and his fingers flex where they lay on the table. "I'm just going to lie down…" He gets up from his chair, bypasses us both without so much as a glance our way, and disappears upstairs.

Bianca leans her chin on my shoulder and stares at where he used to be. "Do you think he'll be alright?" she asks meekly.

"Yes. Probably," I squeak. Clearing my throat, I strengthen my voice and go on. "He just needs time to… process."

"You shouldn't have said anything about Patrick."

"What was I supposed to do? He was going to find out anyway from Holland."

"Still…" She pulls away and walks out of the room. Over her shoulder she calls, "I'm going out for the day. I'll be back later."

"Where are you going?"

She turns to send me an impish grin. "Cameron and I are going sailing."

"Have fun," I murmur lifelessly, flopping down limp into an armchair in the living room. The door slams shut and I am left alone. I feel a coma coming on. Resting my head back, I let my eyes flutter closed, and thoughts float away.

*

But a coma only really lasts so long. Dad has been locked up in his room for hours, and I really can't stand the wait. So I get out of the house. Where do I go? Where else? I go to Patrick. It's still fairly early in the morning, so I'm sure he's still asleep. I don't care. It's not like it'll kill him if I wake him up.

The door to the stairwell sticks. I have to bash it with my shoulder to get it to move. It drags along the floor and makes an awful noise. I shake out my hair and carry onward. Contrary to possible belief, when I approach his door, there is no sinking feeling in my gut. No clairvoyance or warning signals going off in my head. Just an empty hallway and a normal Saturday morning quiet.

My knuckles feel raw when I rap them against his door. I splay the back of my hand out in front of my face and frown. My knuckles _are_ raw. How did that happen? Oh right, now I remember: Dean's nose. My hand drops as the door opens and… and my heart drops. I think for just a second that 'this isn't real' and then it fades and I feel the realness ripping through me with surprising pain.

"Morning?" she smiles brightly at me, a small crinkle in her brow.

I feel queasy.

She's leaning against the door, her head tilts, her knee bends; she's brushing her toes along the floor lightly. She's all sparking crystal clear blue ocean-water eyes and warm toothy smile and tanned skin and honey blonde hair that falls in tangled waves around her shoulders, frames her face just perfectly. Her legs are… are amazing, exactly what you'd expect from a face like that. I have a perfect view of her legs because the only thing she's got on is Patrick's Live Bait T-shirt—the one I wore just the other night—and it billows around her in this sweetly sexy way that makes her seem right out of a one-night-stand movie (where the guy intends to use her but instead gets unwisely charmed by her beauty and falls head over heels). She reminds me of Bianca… a deep, dozen times more naturally beautiful, and sickeningly dazzling carbon copy of my little sister. It makes it all that much worse.

She's looking at me. I feel light-headed because my heart is pounding and my chest is tight. It's hard to breathe. She cocks her head cutely and her smile fades just the tiniest bit with confusion. "Are you alright?" she asks me. Her voice is the same pretty honey of her hair. I feel my knees buckle. I open my mouth, my lip quivers, I swallow, close my mouth because my voice is gone. "Um, Patrick is in the shower right now… but if you want to leave a message, I can tell him." She glances over her shoulder then turns back to me with a polite smile, closes the door a bit more. "Now's not really a good time for visitors though." Visitors… right. I thin my lips, force air up my nose, and jerk my head at her talking.

I start to stumble backwards. My feet drag. My legs are too heavy.

She's perfect. She's just perfect and she's exactly his… his…

I remember the first day I met him. I remember the girl riding on the back of his bike.

She reminds me of that girl. Only she's better. She's perfect.

_Just close the door, please, please, just get out of my sight._

She doesn't. Because she can't read my mind. She just watches with a pitying look on her face as I fumble for the stairwell door. I can't manage to turn my back on her till the last minute. I grope blindly for the handle and give it a good, desperate, shove. The door slams shut in my face and takes her from my sight. I make it two steps down the stairs before my legs crumple out from under me and my butt hits hard against the steel of the stairs. I press my knees bitingly into my chest as I heave quietly. My eyes are still dry. But my breath is so sharp it stings. I'm choking on air. Hair falls into my face, sticks at the corner of my mouth. I gasp and my throat burns. I slam a hand over my mouth and try to suffocate myself. Then tears streak my face faster than I have ever felt before.

Everything burns…

Air quickly becomes an issue, so my hand slides up my face to hide my eyes. I suck in a deep breath and stretch my lungs out. It feels good. My fingers are crawling over the bag that still hangs from my shoulder. Inside the messenger bag is my wallet. Inside my wallet is a picture I covertly proclaimed. I take it out and hold it in both of my hands. Black and white and classic and of him, and it turns into little bitty torn shreds of photo-paper that sprinkle over the rusty steel stair below my feet. With that, I push up stubbornly to my feet and I make my way out of the stairwell and away from the building.

*

I get in my car and I drive. I keep driving for a long, long, long time. I don't know where I'm going. I don't care. But I find myself sitting in a parking lot. When I get out of the car and step into the mid afternoon drizzle, I recognize my surroundings as _Rock-its_. I take a deep breath, clean my face with my sleeve, and step inside.

"Dude, look who's back," someone calls from somewhere I can't see. I walk further into the maze of the emporium and a guy I don't recognize jumps out and slaps his arms around me, bear-style, and my feet don't touch the ground anymore.

I kick out, slither away, land and spin. "Keep your hands off me," I warn the stranger dangerously.

"Whoa, chill out," he says, backing up a step and raising his arms. "Case of mistaken identity, that's all, Baby Girl, don't freak out." He's a dark-skinned twenty-something-year-old with little hair and a body tightly taut with muscle. His shirt hugs him to display this, but his pants are so baggy they look like they're swallowing him whole. "Yo, Kiki, you've got a real customer this time," he shouts over my shoulder.

I turn slowly to see Kiki waltzing up in a leather-ensemble and spiked dominatrix boots. She sees me and smiles welcomingly. "Don't mind Trent," she says, waving a lattice-laced hand at the guy beside me, "He's eyesight is horrible."

"Yeah," he adds apologetically, nudging me with his shoulder. He's at least 6'3, so he has to bend his knees to reach me with his shoulder. "You look exactly like Emma."

I try to walk past them both, but they seem to follow me, either that or I'm not actually moving. Either is a possibility. Kiki moves closer and frowns when she gets a look at my puffy, red-rimmed eyes. But she doesn't comment. Smart girl. "Emma is this friend of ours, a local patron, as we say." She gestures at the emporium enveloping us in reference.

I sidestep them both and head for the stacks. "I really don't give a shit," I say in monotonous splendor. I feel numb, dead almost, as catatonic as Dad. This isn't good. Typically, I'd be analyzing this morning to death. But my brain just won't work. I can barely manage to figure out how to keep putting one foot in front of the other without bumping into walls. "Just don't touch me."

"Will do," Trent murmurs seriously, his eyes burning into me from the spot I left them both.

They cut out of sight when I delve deep into the core of the stacks. I can't concentrate well enough to read any of the words imprinted on the bindings of the books. So I just walk up and down aisles like a zombie. It gives me something to do. But soon that sick feeling gets too bad to ignore. I wander towards the front booth and tap on the countertop.

A guy appears—whom I vaguely recall being referred to as some type of manager—and he smiles appropriately. "Can I help you?"

"Do you have a restroom?"

He stares at me for too long without responding. I wonder what he sees. But soon he says, "Uh, yeah," and points to a door in the back, "down there, through the lounge."

I nod and wander back. I push through the door into the employees' lounge and find a bathroom symbol on a door nearby. I go in, lock the door behind me, and slide down to the floor. I try not to the vomit.

I splash some water on my face and the cold seems to break some of my daze. But then thoughts sink in.

A naked girl answered Patrick's door in the early morning. A naked girl that was wearing the shirt—his shirt—that he gave me to wear not even two nights ago. While he was in the shower. Patrick and the perfect naked girl in his Live Bait shirt.

Patrick slept with this beautiful girl that is exactly his type just a few hours after I told him I loved him. Is this my fault? I should've just shut up. I'm so stupid. I scared him off.

And he's a bastard! Bastard, bastard, bastard!

I feel sick again. I feel feverish. A heat wave hits me, knocks me over, and my head is suddenly hovering over the porcelain basin as I heave my guts out. It really hurts. I really hate this. Especially as tears run down my cheeks, pooling in the corners of my mouth as I choke and sob up the contents of my stomach. Toast and three bites of eggs. Orange juice. Oh God. I heave again. When it's all gone and I'm dry-heaving I throw myself away. My back hits hard against the tiled wall on the other side of the room. I'm on the dirty floor. I don't care. It's disgusting. I really don't give a shit.

How did I screw this one up?

Did I screw this one up?

No. He did. Didn't he? Or did I, if not make him, then drive him to it? Did I smother him? Was I just like all the rest of them? Is this somehow my fault? Again…

No.

Kind of.

Not really.

Maybe.

Fuck me, this hurts.

Maybe this was just inevitable. Maybe it's just who he is. That's what I thought when we met. Before I fell for him, fell in his trap, got to know him. Or maybe he just played me…

No. He didn't. I can't believe that. I don't.

This was just a mistake. I scared him with all that talk of love and seriousness. I just scared him and he made a mistake. Bastard. We're through. Mistake my ass, maybe that's true, maybe it's not, but it doesn't matter one way or the other. I tell myself this. I think it bitterly. I flip-flop from drastic this to extreme that. Understanding and Punishing. Pained and Bitter. Weak and Angry. Weepy and Bitchy.

"Fuck," I breathe heavily and slam the back of my head against the ceramic wall. A dull throb lances out. I bite my lip and curse myself. Curse him. Curse me. Curse this entire fucking day and everything that led to it. Curse everything that's about to come. I just wanna go home. I just wanna make up with Dad and have him tell me what a stupid jerk that hoodlum boy is for not knowing what a great thing he had and what amazing thing he's lost.

But I can't do that… because I've effectively shattered my Dad's view of me. He won't be there for me. He's too preoccupied trying to reconcile things inside himself to just let everything fall back into the places they used to be when he was in the dark and completely hapless and I was still… Kate. I'm Kate again, damn them. I'm Kate. Kat dissolved the minute he kissed me. No. The minute he looked at me and made my heart thump faster. Damn it.

I should've seen this coming. I was too… happy. Everything always gets screwed up when things go good. The good always goes away. It never stays.

Commit it to memory. It's a mantra that will keep me company for the rest of my life. It is words to live by. And not just because of this. Because of everything.

A light rapping resonates through the tiny dimly lit room. I lift my head from the wall and crack my eyes open. "Yeah?"

"You okay?"

"You know, you can't shoot up in there, Baby Girl. That's not cool. Do it on your own turf. We could get in serious trouble."

"Shut up, dickhead, I think she's chucking or something."

"Aw, she better not be tossing her cookies all over there. I'm the one that has to clean that shit up!"

"She did look a little peaked."

"Peaked?"

"Off-color, ya know."

There are at least five different annoying voices coming at me at once through the door and I feel like I'm being bombarded in my weakest state and I just can't take it. Overwhelmed, in the way that makes you either faint and die instantly or snap into a murderous rage. A bloodbath—why?—because I wanted some fucking peace and quiet!

My fingers are sticky with something as they twist in my hair and tug to create substantial pain that keeps me grounded to reality. I bang my head back against the wall again and heave in a sharp breath. "Would you all just _shut the fuck up!_" I scream. My throat is stinging. There's a frog in my throat. No, idiot, not really. But it sure as hell feels like it. My head is pounding. I've got a serious migraine. I just need to die for a few days, just to get myself in order here.

There's a muffled commotion and someone walks away, someone comes up, there's whispering and banging. I open my eyes and touch my cheek to find myself crying again. My nose is running too. My throat is still dry. The room is dark. When did the light go out? The bulb flickers back on then off again. Great.

"What's going on?"

"Oh hey—"

"You're not supposed to be back here."

"Shut up, don't you know who that is?"

"Should I?"

"Guys—"

"What the fuck?"

"Verona, your girl is in there on meltdown right now."

"I think she's OD-ing or something, freaky chick."

"She's not high, you moron. Didn't you see her eyes?"

"Why the heck would I be looking at her eyes? Her—"

A raw outburst is boiling up my cracked throat again when everything suddenly quiets. There is soft rustling and rumbling and the click of several heels headed away, and then all that's left is sweet silence.

Then the soft knock on the door comes. "Kat… you in there?" Patrick's sullen voice rumbles deeply through the door and I sniffle in the darkness and rub at my face tiredly. He knocks once more, so soft and light that he must be only using the tip of his knuckle. "Kat, open the door."

"Go. Away."

"Not until you open the door."

Anger sweeps up my pitiful breakdown and I'm lunging up from the floor and flinging the door open. Before he even has a chance to take in the sight of me I shove my hands into his chest and force him to stumble back. He trips over a rocky wheel-shaped table and almost topples over. While he's struggling to catch himself, I make a run for it.

I rush through the store, all heads turn but nobody gets in my way, and I make it out the door and onto the sidewalk in a few seconds. I push my way through the stream of walkers and make a straight line. I'm going the wrong way. My car is back that way. But I can't turn back now, because he's following, and quickly gaining on me. I clip some guy with my shoulder and make him lose whatever was in his arm, but I don't stop to apologize. I keep on going till I can't go no more because Patrick's caught up to me and has my arm in his grip. I try to keep going forward, but I twirl, and find myself trapped.

"Kat," he sighs impatiently, frowning down at me, "What are you doing?"

"Trying to get away from you, like it's not painfully obvious, so let go and back off." I rip my arm from his grasp and turn away. I take a step before he curves around to block my path. He brings me up short and I arc to avoid his reach. He reaches out, I smack his hand away. I stare flatly. "Touch me again, I dare you."

Patrick holds his hands up submissively but sidesteps when I try to get around him. He's looking down at me like I'm being childishly. It grates against me. "You're overreacting." I give him a good shove with my shoulder as I bluster my way past him. He tips and spins and is right there beside me as I get going again. "Will you just listen to me for a minute?"

I bite my tongue, clench my jaw, and pick up my pace.

"Kat," he huffs, "You don't—"

I rear around at him. "Shut up. Just don't talk to me. Don't—" My voice cracks so I cut off. He stares at me, deliberating something, before I turn and dart into the nearest door. The sign above says Ford's News Stand, which is really just a fancy old-fashioned name for a convenience store. I'm about to slam the door in his face when the scene around me registers. I stop short. Patrick bumps into my back. A second later his hands are gripping my arms from behind and he's trying to get me around him.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Someone yells brashly. The same someone who happens to be brandishing a handgun and waving it around shakily as everyone in the store cowers in various states, some lying flat on the floor, some kneeling, some precariously toppled over on top of something. The clerk behind the counter is a young kid, maybe fifteen or so, and he's got his back pressed against the cigarette rack and is sweating profusely but doesn't have his hands up like the rest. "Where do you think you're going? Get the hell in here."

"What a coincidence," a familiar voice calls softly from my left. I turn to see the guy I recognize as Neil leaning against the corner wall, a hand to his head, where a nasty-looking gash is dripping with blood. "Hello Kat… welcome to the party."

"That's her!" a shrill voice growls. My eyes slide from the gunman to find Nina Grosse fidgeting a few feet away from him, her hands busy with packages of candy and a soda drink. "Viper, that's the girl I told you about." She drops everything, it clatters to the floor noisily, and she points at me.

The guy with the gun turns his eyes on me and furrows his brow. "That's the one that brutalized you?" he asks dubiously.

That's when I recognize him. Viper Grosse. Nina's brother. From lock-up last night.

Great, just fucking great…

Then the whole thing sinks in and my brain unfreezes. "Brutalized?" I scoff, glaring between the two of them. "Right! She's the one that jumped me—"

A hand is suddenly over my mouth and I can't finish. Instead, Patrick's calm voice resonates around the room, his chest vibrating softly against my back, "Viper, man, what are you doing?"

Viper turns to look up over my shoulder, the gun still aimed shakily at the kid behind the counter. "Ya know dude, same old, same old, just needed a little cash."

"So you come to Ford's? Man, not cool, and taking your little sister with you?" Patrick sounds admonishing. I wonder for a second just how well these two know each other.

Aggravation flickers over Viper's face, followed by frustration, and his shifty eyes dart to his sister then back to Patrick. The gun wavers emphatically as he gestures to emphasize. "The stupid little rodent just followed me in here. I swear, she's like an invincible gnat that just won't leave me alone." He turns to glare at his sister. "Why can't you ever just fucking listen to me?"

She glares back but doesn't say anything.

"Ahem," someone clears there throat, "Can we get on with this?" It's Neil.

Viper glances around the room and seems to realize what he was in the middle of before he got distracted. "Oh right, yeah, empty the till, will ya?" he tells the kid, shaking the gun at him. "And make it quick."

"Don't doddle," Nina adds when the kid seems to stay in deer-in-headlights mode.

Just then the bell on the door jingles as it swings open. My foot comes out on instinct and jams it till my body can get there. I slam the door shut and yell, "Sorry, we're closed." Flipping the open/closed sign around, I lock the door and shut the dusty blinds. When I turn back I find Nina tugging on her brother's sleeve as Viper reaches over the counter to grab the kid's arm and drag him towards the register.

"V, come on, I told you, that's her," Nina whines angrily, tugging for her brother's attention. "What are ya gonna do?"

I'm more than slightly on edge and very, very worried right about now.

Viper looks over his shoulder at me then gives her a helpless look. "What do you want me to do, Nina? She's a woman. I can't just beat her up for you."

A hard look comes across Nina's face. It's a 'no-joking' expression. My stomach rolls. My eyes widen. This is what dread _really_ feels like. "Shoot her," she tells him coldly.

Viper's eyes bug out as he regards his sister properly (like she belongs in a Looney Bin). "Have ya lost your mind?"

Nina shrugs and rolls her eyes. "You don't have to kill her. Just shoot her in the knee or something."

Patrick steps in front of me as my mouth hangs open stupidly. I'm having a hard time coming to grips with this girl. Viper shakes his head, looking fairly frazzled, and turns back to the kid. "I don't have time for this."

"Viper, if you don't do this for me I'm going to have to go to the cops."

"And tell 'em what? That you want me arrested because I wouldn't murder someone for you?"

"I told you it doesn't have to be a kill-shot. Just a painful spot that's not likely to be fatal. If she dies from blood loss, then oh well."

"You're insane."

That seems to hit her cool hard. Rage flashes over her and she kicks him in the back of the leg. "Don't say that!" she screams hysterically. Obviously he hit a sore spot. She lunges for the gun and they struggle. She bites his hand, trying to get him to let go of the gun, and he ends up backhanding her across the room. She crashes into a rack of chips and tumbles to the floor, deflated.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Patrick is suddenly across the distance and on him.

I don't like this.

I really don't like this.

I want to do something useful.

But my body ducks for cover on instinct.

I look up to find the spot Nina fell empty of anything other than junk food. Not good. So not good.

A shot rings out.

I stupidly jump up and find myself knocked into a hard body. Arms are around me, holding me back, and I see a combination of Patrick and blood. I'm gonna be sick. What the hell is going on? My brain can't keep up.

I realize I'm stuck with one of Viper's arms around me as I struggle against him, his other hand still grasping the gun, aiming it at nowhere in particular but still aiming it enough to keep everyone sane on the floor. Nina is lying a few feet away from us, not looking very alive, but she's not the one that's bleeding, so screw her. Over Nina is Patrick, leaning against the wall, slumped on a stack of beer crates. Blood is soaking his shirt. He looks sleepy. Not… not good. Fuck.

Viper's arm goes up and is binding around my throat. My fingers are digging into him but that doesn't do a damn thing. Patrick's been shot. Nina's out. Viper is flipping out. And the gun is being waved around erratically, making everyone extremely nervous.

I take a breath and struggle for some sort of control. My ears have been ringing but I can finally make out the words voices seem to be spewing.

"Oh, Jesus Fucking Christ!" Viper rages. He's freaking out and taking me with him. "Is she dead?"

His arm goes lax around me and I can breathe again. I slither from his grasp and down to kneel beside Nina. My fingers press into the pulse point at her neck. My eyes jump up and lock with Patrick's. He seems to be alive. He'll be fine, I tell myself. He'll be fine, just breathe.

"She's just unconscious," I tell Viper.

He huffs out a breath and sags with relief. Then he spins, pacing, and runs a hand through his hair. I take the opportunity to slide a hand into my bag and wrap fingers around the solidity of my taser. Patrick is looking at me, holding his shoulder and fighting to keep his eyes open, but sending me a knowing look all the same. I slide out the taser and keep it pressed to my thigh, hidden from Viper's view. I rise slowly to my feet and turn to face him.

"What are you going to do?" I ask him carefully, trying to prompt him back on target. He needs to get his head straight. He needs to snap out of this rising freak out and get control of himself, or we are all in big trouble. I have to get Patrick to the hospital. I have to end this without getting anyone else shot.

Not an easy task, if you ask me.

Viper spins on me with wide eyes. He looks confused. Then it sinks in. Apprehension seems to settle over his features. He takes a breath. "Right… alright… alright… okay, get the cash," he tells me, grabbing my arm and shoving me towards the counter haphazardly. My stomach bashes against it before I steady my feet. "Put it in here," he shoves a bag at me, "And… and…"

He seems lost. "While you get your sister," I nod encouragingly.

"Right… right…" He lets go and backs up. He turns to Nina and kicks a foot into her lightly. "Hey? Wake up, Nin, come on, we gotta go."

I turn my attention to the kid, whose shaky hands are having trouble getting the register open, and reach out to shove the bag at him. "Come on, take a deep breath and get it together. Nobody wants to get shot here, so just empty the cash into here and get down on the floor."

He glances at me. _'Who are you, the accomplice?'_ his face says sardonically all without moving his mouth. But he gets the till open and his hands clump up with cash. When I take the bag from him, my finger subtly switches off the safety and lets the taser charge up in silence. My eyes flit back to Patrick, who is slumped sideways and losing an awful lot of blood. My heart is racing. I feel sick and faint. I breathe in too deeply and let it affect me as I step back, rounding the counter corner to get somewhat out of the way.

"Viper," I call anxiously. He's crouched down beside Nina and trying to wrap her limp arm around his shoulders to haul her up when he looks over at me. I hold the bag up shakily for him. I swallow thickly and let it show just how unsteady on my feet I am. I sway slightly.

He painstakingly stumbles with Nina hanging off of him towards me. He gets so close. He struggles with juggling his sister and the gun and tries to find an extra hand to take the bag from me.

He gets closer. He's so close now.

The gun dips as he takes the bag from me. I lurch for it, simultaneously gripping his wrist, forcing the gun to point towards the floor, and shove the steel prongs of the taser into the sensitive part of his neck.

It crackles loudly.

He yelps.

The gun goes off.

Nina clatters to the floor like limp noodles.

Viper thrashes and convulses his way to the floor.

I wrestle the gun from his erratic grip even as I hold the taser to him.

The sound of sirens echoes through the still room. I let the electricity die down and drop the taser as my knees give out and I crash to the floor beside Viper. He groans incomprehensibly and his fingers twitch. His eyes flutter frantically behind their lids. He's going to be out for awhile.

Just as relief washes through me and I feel weak something rams into me, sending me skidding gracelessly across the cold linoleum floor. I flip over and find myself pinned down by the weight of an insane Nina. Her hands go for my throat with a guttural screech from deep in her throat. I jam my knee into her gut from the side as my hands grab at her wrists. We wrestle, roll, and struggle for the upper hand. It's not working. She's insanely strong. Must be the adrenaline.

I buck my hips up, slam my fist into her temple, and slip my legs out from under her, up to my chest, then kick out and knock her off of me. I flip onto my stomach and scramble forward towards Viper and my taser. I'm almost in reach when she grabs my leg and drags me back. I flip and lurch up. But the momentum backfires and I get knocked back, the base of my skull smacks against the floor and stars explode in my eyes. The pain is incredible. I can barely move. But that doesn't stop her from straddling me and going for my throat again. I avoid her grip, unsettle it, and try to wriggle away. But I'm blinking rapidly and having a hard time doing anything but closing my eyes and lying back lifelessly.

I can't breathe.

Then suddenly I can as Nina flies to the side, off of me, and slumps to the floor across from her brother.

I blink through the dancing spots of light and dark and manage to make out Patrick's haggard figure standing over me. One arm hangs limp at his side as the other outreaches for me. My hand comes up, brushes against the back of my head as I lean up, and my fingers come back sticky with blood. I frown at that. This isn't good.

I ignore Patrick's hand and push myself up with sheer stubbornness. I sway but find that I am somewhat steady now that I'm standing upright.

"Are you okay?" he asks, his voice slurred and his eyes heavy-lidded. There is a crazy amount of blood.

"Am I okay?" I send him a look like he's crazy. "I'm not the one that got shot."

He looks down at his arm and tries to shrug. Only one shoulder makes it. Instead, he gives out and tries to sink to the floor. I press myself to him and take most of his weight before he can hit the ground. But that doesn't work for more than a second. So I lower us both to the floor gingerly. I sit and let him fall back. My hand comes to the source of the blood. His shoulder… it could've been much worse. I know this. But I can't help the intense panic.

There is a ruckus outside. Everyone in here seems to be frozen with uncertainty.

I shrug off my jacket and crumple it into a ball before pressing it to Patrick's shoulder. He lets out a groan of pain but is other wise too weak to protest and I've got to try to stop the bleeding.

I look up at no one in particular and bark, "Go tell the cops it's safe to come in. And for God's sake, somebody get a fucking ambulance!"

*

Put simply: things are kind of hazy. I seem to be in a daze. Maybe it's shock. But my brain is not up to full-operating-capacity at the moment. The hands on me, the questions flying at me, it's all just irritating the fuck out of me.

"Stop," I say then forcefully swat the gloved hands away when they don't listen. "I'm fine."

"Ma'am," the paramedic states clear and slow, impatient, "You may have a concussion. We need to take you to the hospital. You'll need an MRI so we can rule out any damage."

I try to stand up again from where I'm perched on the step of the ambulance. He takes my shoulders and pushes me back down again. Damn him. The other ambulance's doors have just shut. They're taking Patrick away on a gurney. There's an oxygen mask on his face and he's strapped down to the board. Damn it, I want to go with them. He passed out a few minutes before the ambulances arrived. This is not good. But this jerk won't let me go.

"I'm fine. My head is fine. I'll go to the hospital and get checked out. But you're not making me miss—" The ambulance drives away with its sirens and lights blaring— "Damn it, look what you did!" I shove past him and go for… where am I going? Where'd my car go? Which hospital are they taking Patrick to? Where is it? What the hell is going on? I'm… _dizzy_. Really, really dizzy…

I clasp a hand to my head and let the paramedic herd me into a seated position because my legs are wobbling out from under me.

"Excuse me, Miss."

I crack an eye open to see Officer Jack What's-his-name hovering over me. He's cradling a mini-notepad and pen in his hands and glancing between me and paramedic.

"Is she clear to give a statement?" he asks the EMT.

Mr. EMT gives a curt jerk of his head and thins his lips. "I'm taking her to the hospital, just to be safe. You'll have to talk to her later."

"Will do," Jack nods and is on his way towards Neil, who's been patched up and is sitting on a bench on the sidewalk with an icepack held to his forehead. Funny that I'd run into him like this. What do you know? Serendipity I guess.

"Ow," I hiss, swatting at the paramedic's damn hand again.

He forces me into the ambulance and slams the doors shut securely. He bangs against the side of it. And we're off.

*

Sure enough, I'm checked out fine. No brain damage, just a slight concussion.

I sit in the waiting room while they take the bullet out of Patrick's shoulder and suture him up. They had to give him a blood transfusion because he lost so much. They say that he was also very lucky. A few minutes more and he would've been in real danger. They only tell me this because I inform them that I am his fiancé. Yeah, they tried to brush me off because I wasn't family. Bastards…

I'm sitting in a hard plastic chair with my arms leant on my thighs and my head bent down when something begins to vibrate in my back pocket. Turns out it's my phone. I flip it open slowly and bring it to my ear. I feel like I'm wading through sludgy water.

"Hello?"

"Kat!" Bianca's shrill voice yelps into my ear. I wince. "Kat, are you okay? I just saw you on the news. You look horrible! Where are you? What happened?"

"Um… We were in a botched robbery. Patrick got shot. I'm at the hospital." My words come out slow but correct. I blink, swallow, and go on. "Is Dad with you?"

"He's upstairs. I'll get him and we'll be right there. Don't move."

"Bianca…"

"Yes?"

"I'm at Mercy Thompson Hospital ER."

"Oh, right, duh, it would help to know where to go," she laughs. It's a nervous and cracked sound that is uncharacteristic of Bianca. She sounds like I feel… completely and utterly _off_. "Don't move. We'll be right there."

I snap the phone shut and let it slide onto the seat beside me. My back falls into the chair and I run a hand through my hair, leaning an elbow on the arm of the chair and leaning my head in my hand.

The next time I open my eyes it's to see Dad and Bianca racing down the hall, knocking past people brazenly in their hurry to get to me. I come to my feet and am instantly succumbed to Dad's bruising embrace. His arms slap around me bear-style and I'm suffocating. He's muttering incomprehensibly about "My baby girl" and "Almost killed" and things like that. Once Bianca sees clearly that I am not dying, she sinks into the chair beside me and calms. Dad refuses to do the same.

"Dad," I say through his low-level hysteria. "Dad, I'm fine. Really, just a bump on the head, no biggie," I insist, tearing myself skillfully from his vice-like embrace and sinking down into my chair. "It's Patrick that's hurt."

Dad frowns but doesn't say anything.

"Is he going to be okay?" Bianca asks timidly.

I nod and wipe a hand over my face tiredly. "I think so. They say the bullet missed most of everything vital, and besides some physical therapy for his shoulder, he should be good as new." I turn to her and let her see my weariness. "If he'd lost anymore blood though…" I trail off. I can't even contemplate it. With a steadier voice, I go on. "He saved me you know. It's my fault he got shot. He went at he guy because I…"

Because Nina is a fucking psycho and was going to try to shoot me, that's why. Kill me.

Stupid jerk shouldn't have done something that idiotic to begin with. Viper wasn't going to shoot me… I don't think. He was just trying to be a stupid hero. Jackass. I can't believe he did that.

"The hoodlum with the disturbingly deep voice and dangerous motorcycle saved my baby girl's life?" Dad mumbles under his breath, flabbergasted and in shock. He stares at a white spot in the wall behind us and goes silent.

"That's so cool," Bianca beams. "God, he's so romantic."

"Romantic?" I balk. "He's a fucking idiot!"

"Oh come on, Kat—"

"Just shut up," I growl at her, jumping from my chair and stomping off down the hall.

I find the nearest restroom and burst into it, shoving the doorstop to work as a lock. I just need to be alone. I walk on my shaky legs to the row of sinks. I lean over one and flip on the faucet. I'm slow-moving and awkward, but I'm alright. I think…

I look down and really see. I see my hands. They are trembling and weak. They are still covered in blood, dried and stained. My hands are covered in blood. My hands are stained red. And it's not mine. No, not mine. It's _his_. I lower them under the cold water and start scrubbing.

It flashes through my mind. I screw my eyes shut, but it doesn't stop the flashes. All I can see are impressions of what happened speeding through my head so quickly it's making me dizzy. Leaning over him, my hands soaked in his blood as I try to seal up the wound, the sirens in the distance, I try to get him to talk to me but he goes out and he doesn't come back. It runs through my head over and over again.

I take in a deep breath through my nose, slow and steady. It burns my lungs, stretches them, and then I blow it out through my mouth. With the exhalation comes sobs that make my whole body shake violently. My knees give out. I crumple to the floor, my hands gripping the edge of the sink above my head.

Two seconds before we stepped into that store I was dead-set on never seeing him again. I didn't want to hear his voice or feel him follow me; I just wanted him to go away. I never wanted to see him again. Because he hurt me. He hurt me bad. That was the thought that ran through my head when we stepped into that chaos. _I never want to see you again… _And now look.

If I hadn't gone in there, he never would have followed me. This is my fault. I almost lost him. He almost died… because of me.

But he's going to be fine, I think as I choke back more hysteria. Flipping out isn't going to do me any good. It's just going to make my headache worse. Patrick is fine. I am overreacting. Patrick is alive and well and I am just freaking out over nothing.

I say it over and over again until I can control myself and stop crying. I push myself up weakly and wash my face. I scrub the rest of the stains off my hands and I dry them with paper towels. I'm breathing normally by the time I walk back down the hallway towards Dad and Bianca.

Until I see her.

Miss Perfect in the Live Bait T-shirt is standing by the nurse's station a few feet away from my family. Only she's dressed in her own clothes now. I assume they're her clothes anyway. She's talking to a nurse. What is she doing here? That girl is _not_ here to see him. The nerve of her… Fuck.

I force my feet to move and she turns to me when I near them. She forces a smile, this one less bright than her others, and turns fully towards me, dismissing the nurse's attention. "You must be Kat."

I feel myself glaring at her. Who the hell does she think she is coming here like this?

Then it clicks. She knows my name? Why?

"You are?" I ask rudely.

Her smile is… well, alright, it's nice and polite and sympathetic. Bitch. "I'm Lilly. I've heard a lot about you."

"Excuse me?" I snap derisively.

Wait.

Lilly?

Where have I heard that name before?

Lilly, Lilly, Lilly… Oh. Fuck.

"You're Lilly?" I flounder embarrassingly. Bianca shoots me a weird look. I ignore her. "Patrick's…" Where did my voice go?

"… sister, yeah," she nods patiently.

I almost start crying again right here in the middle of the waiting room. My body feels fatigued with relief. His sister. Patrick's sister. _Sister_. Not blonde bimbo. But sister.

She seems to read me and goes on with an apologetic expression. "Yeah, I want to say sorry about this morning. I'm afraid you must've gotten the wrong impression." She brushes a strand of honey hair out of her face lightly and smiles, flips it, reminds me of Bianca. How can she possibly share Patrick Verona's DNA? "It just didn't occur to me how bad that looked until you were already gone. I must've caused some trouble." She blushes like she's embarrassed.

Really… I just want to hug her. But I don't. I stiffen and let a smile attack my lips. "Oh. That's… just forget about it. It's so unbelievably nice to meet you," I gush.

She and Bianca happen to laugh at me at the same second. It's eerie. "So," she glances back at the nurse's station, "they say Pat's gonna be just fine. They've taken him up to recovery."

"Oh." He's not here anymore.

"They also said that he's asking for you," she smiles and backs towards the station, leans an elbow on it, and the nurse slides over a chart of papers. "I've got to take care of insurance information."

I nod… in a daze.

I'm still stuck on: _Patrick's sister_.

"I can take you up if you want," one of the nurses says, rounding the station and coming to stand beside me in her cotton-candy pink scrubs. She's blonde and perky and can't be a day over 20. But she has to be. Whatever. "This way."

I turn without waiting for my family's group "go on" and let her take me up in the elevator and lead me to room 217 in recovery. The door is left open. I stop a few feet away from it. She looks back at me and smiles warmly.

"Go on in when you're ready. He probably won't last much longer with those painkillers kicking in."

I nod as she turns and walks away.

Okay. Okay. Okay. Here I go.

I step into the room to find Patrick resting in an uncomfortable-looking hospital bed. It's raised up so he's kind of just reclining back a bit instead of lying down. There's a blue sling over his bandaged shoulder that is hooked around his arm. He looks… pale. His raven hair is mussed and falling haphazardly into his eyes. His eyes are fluttering in that space between closed and open.

I'm suddenly very nervous, standing here awkwardly in the doorway, shuffling my feet and trying to breathe quietly. Maybe I should just let him sleep. Yeah, that's what I should do. I step quietly into the room and sink carefully into the uncomfortable chair beside his uncomfortable bed. I'm just starting to relax, leaning my arms on the edge of the bed and brushing my fingers lightly over the hand on his uninjured arm, when he stirs.

"Mm, oh, hey, Kat," he slurs, blinking his eyes back open. After a momentary struggle, he manages to focus his gaze on my face. His fingers curl around my hand. "I thought you'd be gone."

I crack a weak smile and say softly, "I got lost."

"I'm glad you're not lost anymore," he mutters almost incomprehensibly. A few words don't make sense, but I'm pretty sure that's what he was trying to say.

"How's your shoulder?" I ask.

He looks down and frowns then comes back up to me and smiles brightly. "Feels great… I love Demerol," he sighs. Then something flickers over his face, darkening him. "I need to tell you something important. It's very important." He tries to sit up straighter. I'm not sure how to stop him so I just lay a hand over his ribcage and press down imperceptibly. Turns out, it's more than enough to convince him not to move.

"We don't have to talk," I tell him, shaking my head. "I met Lilly downstairs."

"Lilly, right," he blinks, then reaches apprehension after a slight delay. "That's what I wanted to tell you. She said you came by this morning and I just knew that you (being Kat and all) would get some stupid ideas and be pissed at me." His head lolls back and his eyes close as he mumbles blearily. "She surprised me for my birthday. I was surprised. If I wasn't I would have warned you."

"Your birthday?" I pull back and raise my brow at him. His birthday? Today? Why did I not know this?

"Mm," he nods. "I probably should've told you about that too. Sorry."

"That's…" I want to be irritated that he wouldn't share something like that with me. But I'm just too exhausted to really give a fuck. "That's fine. I know now."

"Right, you do." His hand tightens for a second in mine. "Are you hurt?" he asks me, and somehow manages to get his eyes open again.

I shake my head for him and smile, "Not at all… thanks to you."

He makes a '_humph'_ sound and tries to move his shoulders in some sort of shrug. "You got me shot. I should've known. It's exactly the type of thing you'd get me into. What am I going to do with you?"

I think he's teasing, but it still tugs at my insides coldly. Guilt and worry churns.

And somehow, even in his halfway-to-delirious state he still manages to sense what's going on with me. He drags my hand heavily up his chest to his lips and kisses the crook of my palm. "As long as you're alright… I'm cool with getting shot."

"I'm so sure you are," I grumble, though I feel a smile tugging at my lips. "Now you'll have a scar to show off to all the pretty girls. And even an exciting and heroic battle-tale to tell them. I bet you're in heaven," I try to mock him. But evidently he's already said his last line because he doesn't seem to be with me any longer. My hand is resting over his thumping heart and his has dropped to his side. His head has fallen slightly to the side and his breathing has shifted. He's so far away from here right now it's not even funny.


	14. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

*

_Seven Days Later:_ I'm sitting on my front porch swing and watching the sun set behind a thick layer of thunderclouds. Patrick is sitting beside me, his arm still in a sling, earphones in his ears as he scrolls idly through his IPod. He's good at being quiet and letting me concentrate as I work on an essay for AP Brit Lit. My notepad is pressed to my knees that are propped up on the edge of the swing. The pen is in my hand as I scribble messily, outlining the paper on Victorian Symbolism and how it relates to the 20th centuries style of Hawthorne and the likes. Very boring stuff…

The window near us is open and the sheer curtains are blowing in the light wind that passes us by. Through the window is light from the reading lamp in the corner of the living room and the scent of Dad's baking lasagna.

He's forced Patrick to come over every night for dinner this week. He's way of paying him back for taking a bullet for his baby girl—or so he says. I'm more than cool with it thought, because the change in Dad when it comes to Patrick is incredible and still pretty shocking. I have yet to accept it as truth. He seems to prefer Patrick over me now. He sides with him on every little thing we argue about. It's irritating. I can never win in this relationship now that Dad's stuck his nose into it.

I'm grounded for the next 6 months thanks to the little meeting he had with principle Holland. I also have community service detention for the next two months and have to take on Saturday tutoring at the local junior high. Patrick got the same punishment after Dad vouched for him.

Bianca's no longer allowed to date, no exceptions, so she's currently pissed and not talking to me. Dad, though willing to accept me as I am, is not willing to let Bianca follow the same path as his oldest daughter. Therefore, she's screwed. I can't bring myself to feel sorry for her, because I know either she'll find a way around it or Dad will lax with time.

My hearing catches an intriguing tune and it pulls me in. I lean sideways and steal one of Patrick's earphones, slip it into my own ear, and close my eyes to take it in. Chris Daughtry's _Crashed_… Interesting. I soak up the lyrics and realize that it really kinda epitomizes us. I glance sidelong and catch Patrick smirking knowingly at me. I roll my eyes and turn back to my paper.

I scratch out the last line I wrote just when a familiar truck pulls up to the curb. Patrick tenses beside me as Dean walks up the drive and steps up onto the porch. I set my book and pen aside. "Hey…" I say cautiously. If Dad finds him here… Well, let's not think about that.

"Easy," he warns Patrick, with only his normal amount of mock, holding up his hands, "I come in peace."

"Undoubtedly," I quip dryly, "Question is: what do you come here for?"

Dean lowers his hands and moves to lean the back of his thighs along the porch railing near us. He crosses his arms and ankles. "Well, I heard about what happened and I wanted make sure you were okay."

"That was a week ago, Dean. Really? You couldn't have been that worried," I drawl, hooking an arm around my knees and leveling him with a meaningful look. "Besides, I thought you were going home?"

"I am, I swear. Just wanted to come say goodbye," he murmurs, looking at me as if we're the only two people in the world. He's pretty good at ignoring things, but its obvious Patrick isn't taking well to being oblivious to him. I can't help the little smile that flirts with my lips at the thought. Patrick is so jealous right now.

"Good," I say. "Tell your dad congrats for me. Have a safe trip." I'm trying to politely yet pointedly dismiss him. He knows it too; he's just not heeding me. I wait patiently as Patrick stares at Dean staring at me staring at Dean.

Finally he pushes up and turns to walk away. When he reaches the edge of the stairs he turns back to me. "I never got that answer…"

I frown, think back then realize what he's talking about. "You know, don't quote me on this, but I think I do."

Dean cracks a heartfelt smile that lights up his eyes with warmth and he nods. "Never thought I'd see the day…" With that, he walks back to his truck and drives away.

I watch him go until he's out of sight and then I sigh and sag back into the swing. I only get a second of peace before I feel Patrick's eyes burning into me.

"You do what?" he asks me, stiffly and tensely, his face tightly drawn and dark.

I turn my head to him and smile warmly, "Forgive him."

Something akin to relief flickers over him. Then it's gone and he's back to derision. "I don't see how," he shakes his head. "When it comes to that guy…"

"What?"

"I just don't get you."

"I don't doubt that." There are a lot of things he won't understand, because he just wasn't there for them. That doesn't mean I won't enjoy showing him. It'll just take time. I leave all of this unsaid because it doesn't need to be spoken. I know he can see it in my eyes. I want to let it drop, but there is this strange look on him. Something unreadable. It drives me crazy with curiosity. "What is it?"

Patrick turns his head away, tries to put his earphones back in. I grab his hand to stop him. He sighs and all the tension visibly deflates with his armor. "It's just that… I just had a moment of blind panic back there… that you would…"

"Oh." I sigh and twist my body to face him as the swing sways. Hair blows into my face as the wind picks up strength. "You thought I was saying I still loved him?"

"Yeah, I guess," he shrugs, tries to play it off, fails miserably. "I just got this stupid image of you running into his arms."

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. Jesus, Verona…" I'm trying to lighten the mood. It doesn't work. But he does crack a smile of camaraderie at his own element of pathetic. "Besides, why would you panic about that?"

He turns to look at me like I'm a moron. I smile because I know what I said and why I said it. And my master plan begins to pay off as he speaks up, albeit extremely uncomfortably Cool Hand Luke-like. "Because instinctually Stratford, I think you're mine. But it hasn't caught up to my brain just yet. So there's this worry."

"The id and the ego, what do ya know," I tease.

"Isn't that some sort of Freudian thing?"

I laugh and nod, readjusting myself to move closer. "The uncoordinated instinctual trends and the organized realism, two splits in the psyche that never fully melds."

"Yeah, but you forgot the super-ego: the critical and moralized. I don't think I've got one of those," he frowns jokingly.

"You know your pysch 101. Wow, I'm impressed, Verona." I slant in, "It gets me all hot and bothered when you reveal just how intelligent you really are." Our lips are about to collide when his words hit me. I yank back. "I'm yours?" I mock. "Your inner Neanderthal is showing. Might want to work on it—"

He grins at my ruffled feathers and cups a hand over the nape of my neck, cutting me off with, "You talk too much."

Then he jerks me to him and quite literally steals my breath, forcing my open mouth onto his. The intensity flares instantly as our tongues meet, sending waves of a savage sensation through me as we battle. My hips rock forward. My fingers clench in the wooden splits of the swing so hard I get splinters, all in an effort to keep me from straddling him right here and now.

We tear apart gasping for breath and his face is flushed, his lips swollen, his eyes dark with liquid heat as he stares at me. His hand trails down my neck, shoulder, collarbone, chest, stomach, stopping at my hip. "You know how I feel about you, right?" His voice is raspy and sends tingles shooting shockingly through me. The sound of him at this moment makes my toes curl.

I lick my lips and blink through the headiness. "Mm Hm." I rest my forehead against his and try to breathe. "I think."

His thumb makes little heated circles along my inner thigh through the flimsy material of my drawstring scrubs. "When I first saw you: there was curiosity and intrigue. You entertained me, interested me. Then I found how cool a person you are, and I wanted you." I strangle a moan and my eyes flutter closed as I listen to him. "Now…" he struggles for a moment searchingly, "I need you."

I had expected '_I love you'_ but I guess I shouldn't have. He did tell me upfront that he isn't a good guy to commit to. I think he's wrong. I think he does love me. I think he just doesn't know it. If he's never been in love before… needing me _is_ loving me for him. I'll believe that until he's ready to say it.

I shake my head once against him and swallow. "You don't need me," I argue lightly. "You'd get over being without me."

"How boring would life be without Kat Stratford beside me?"

"For one: you wouldn't get shot."

He grins crookedly at me and rubs his thumb down my cheek with a roll of his eyes. "Where's the fun in that?"

"You're unbelievable," I laugh, pulling away from him. I twist again and rest lightly against his side, looking out over the darkened sky. The sun is gone completely now and the thunderclouds aren't even visible anymore. But the loud rolling claps in the distance say they're still there. "Let's go to the lake tonight…"

"Definitely," he breathes into my hair, wrapping his arm around my shoulders. "Mm… right after your dad's lasagna," he smirks.

"My, my… Never thought I'd see the day."

"I know," he laughs with a mock-frown. "Look what you've done to me."

I laugh and press back into him, twisting to dart up for a kiss. He jolts with a wince and I pull back with wide eyes. "Oh God! Did I hurt you?" I grimace worriedly.

He grits his teeth and settles in cautiously. "What else is new?"

I wince apologetically and try to pull away from him so I don't hurt him again. He grabs my arm and slams me against him. He grits his teeth through the pain and captures my lips, nipping and kissing. His hand tangles in my hair. My hand rests over his heart; it thumps wonderfully beneath my palm.

Something sharp smacks against something breakable and we break apart to see Dad glaring out the window at us with his special hawk-eyes. He points a dangerous finger at Patrick and narrows his eyes. "Enough of that!" Then he goes on, "Dinner's ready."

Patrick raises to his feet with nothing more than a regretful look over his shoulder at me as he walks into the house. I sit back and watch him go with an uncontrollable smile on my face. I feel… light and airy. Everything seems good. I'm pretty sure this is what it feels like to be truly happy.

All the reasons I had for not falling for Patrick Verona?

I can't even remember them. Not a one. And I love it.

**The End**


	15. Soundtrack

**Soundtrack**

* * *

1. Angie Baby by Helen Reddy

2. Damn by Katy Perry

3. I'd Come For You by Nickelback

4. Next Contestant by Nickelback

5. Boom Boom Pow by Black Eyed Peas

6. Bullseye by Aly & AJ

7. Paralyzer by Finger Eleven

8. Falling On by Finger Eleven

9. She Can Get It by Kevin Rudolf

10. Call Me by Blondie

11. Renegade by Styx

12. I Want You To Want Me by Letters to Cleo

13. Hell's Bells by AC/DC

14. The Power of Love by Huey Lewis and the News

15. Hot 'n' Cold by Katy Perry

16. A War in Your Bedroom by A Change of Pace

17. Still Rock and Roll to Me by Billy Joel

18. User Friendly and/or Sweet Dreams by Marilyn Manson

19. Stardust Tinsel by Sarah Rose Serena

20. Can't Take My Eyes Off You by Muse

21. Supernova Girl by Proto Zoa

22. Isn't She Lovely by Stevie Wonder

23. That Thing You Do by The Wonders

24. You Don't Know Me by Micheal Buble

25. Crashed by Chris Daughtry

* * *

**Thank You**

**and  
**

**Goodnight**


End file.
